


Change Your Stars

by histoires_eternelles, JJK



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A Knight's Tale AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anachronistic, Devil dinosaur is a horse, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Inspired by A Knight's Tale (2001), Jousting, Jousting Injuries, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, but a few knights were, embedded art, knights and squires, no horses were harmed in the writing of this fic, secret prince bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/histoires_eternelles/pseuds/histoires_eternelles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: “No, wait.” Steve reached out a hand to stay Sam, overcome with a terrible, or maybe a brilliant idea. “All he has to do is not fall off his horse,” Steve said, with a slow smile spreading across his lips.Sam frowned at Steve.“One of us could ride in his place.”⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆A Steve/Bucky Knight’s Tale AU with a double dose of Identity Porn, featuring fake-knight Steve and secret-prince Bucky.
Relationships: (Background Natasha Romanov / Clint Barton), (background Tony Stark / Pepper Potts), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 196
Kudos: 176
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Change Your Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to finally share my contribution to the **2020 (Not) Another Study Big Bang**! My artist, [histoires_eternelles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Histoires_eternelles), has created some wonderful art for this fic, which I can't wait for you all to see 😄
> 
> Thank you so much to Caro for cheerleading this fic, and my beta reader Katie for point out all of my plot holes, this story wouldn't be half as great without both of your support! 💙
> 
> A Knight's Tale is one of my all time favourite movies and I've had so much writing this fic (and rewatching the film approximately 1000 times for 'research' purposes). This verison doesn't follow the movie plot _exactly_ , it's more 'inspired by' - hopefully you won't be disappointed by my rendition! 🤞✨

__

**Change Your Stars**

**Fic by JJK | Art by histoires_eternelles**

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

_In medieval times a sport arose. Embraced by noble and peasant fans alike though only noble knights could compete. The sport was jousting. For one of these knights, an over-the-hill former champion, it was the end. But for his peasant squire Steven, it was merely the beginning._

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Steve tilted his face towards the sun and closed his eyes against the glare. Warmth beat down, but a gentle breeze that played gently through the trees around them took the edge off the heat. Beside him, Devil, a beautiful chestnut courser, snorted and padded the ground with an impatient hoof.

“I know,” Steve placated the horse with a gentle hand to the horse’s neck. “You did so well. Just one more today, and then you’re done,” he cooed to soothe the animal. Once the beast was pacified, Steve let his attention turn back to Sam and Sir Phillips. “How’s he doing, Sam?” Sir Phillips had been feeling unwell all morning, but he’d persevered and, somehow, they were ahead: three scores to none after two lances. All Sir Phillips had to do now was stay on his horse and he’d win. With the tournament prize money, they’d finally be able to buy some food—if they could remind Phillips to pay them before he spent all of the gold on bad wine again.

“Not good,” Sam sighed, glancing up from where he was tending to Sir Phillips in the shade of a tall oak tree.

“Well, can he ride?”

“Not likely. He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Steve demanded. He abandoned the horse and rushed to Sam’s side, ignoring the stench that clung to Sir Phillips’s limp form; he certainly smelled like death. “No, no, he can’t be dead.” Steve tried to rouse him, but Phillips’ body merely slumped over onto its side.

“He’s definitely dead,” Sam sighed, before cursing under his breath. “Damn it all to hell. I was looking forward to eating tonight.”

Steve stared at the prone body of their former employer. This close, they’d been _this close_ to full bellies and a purse full of coins for Steve to save up and take home to his mother. All Sir Phillips had to do was not fall off his horse. He stood up and kicked the knight’s helmet in annoyance. Bloody, selfish, drunken fool.

“I’ll fetch him a priest,” Sam grumbled and pushed himself to his feet, brushing his hands on his breeches as he prepared to stride off towards town.

“No, wait.” Steve reached out a hand to stay Sam, overcome with a terrible, or maybe a brilliant idea. “All he has to do is not fall off his horse,” Steve said, with a slow smile spreading across his lips.

Sam frowned at Steve.

“One of us could ride in his place.”

“Are you mad?” Sam demanded.

“Perhaps.” Steve grinned back. “Let’s strip his armour, I’ll do it if you won’t.” Steve began the laborious task of unfastening Sir Phillips’s armour and throwing it towards the clean grass. “Come on, help me, quick—before we run out of time and he forfeits!” Steve urged.

Sam remained unmoved. He folded his arms and stared at Steve. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but you must be of noble birth to compete.”

“ _I’m_ not competing, Sir Phillips is,” Steve countered.

“If anyone finds out . . .” Sam left the threat hanging in the air. They’d be killed, and most likely humiliated in the stocks first.

“So, let’s pray they don’t find out.” Steve grinned.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The armour was heavy and ill-fitting. It made Steve’s movements clunky and unbalanced. Suddenly the task of staying on the horse seemed much more difficult. Sam led Devil into the lists by the halter and Steve’s nerves spiked. The jousting field looked far more menacing from this angle. Rowdy crowds of people clamoured against fences either side, eager to witness the violent carnage of a joust. Steve’s vision was limited through the narrow slit in the helmet’s visor and his face felt hot and clammy from his trapped breath. A hundred and fifty yards away, atop a fearsome-looking destrier, sat Steve’s opponent.

“Sir Gilmore, stand ye ready?” shouted the tournament herald. The knight raised his lance in a salute.

“Sir Phillips, stand ye ready?”

Steve swallowed his fear and squared his shoulders before he raised his lance to indicate he was indeed ready.

“Good luck,” Sam hissed up at him.

“I’ve tilted against Sir Phillips many times.” Steve quashed his fears, putting on a show of bravery for Sam.

“In practice! As his target!” Sam hissed. “You never struck him.”

“A detail,” Steve replied. He stared down the lists at his opponent and tried to focus. He could do this, he just needed to stay on his horse. The other knight needed three points to win. A broken lance wouldn’t do it, he _had_ to knock Steve off his horse. Steve just had to weather the blow. He was good at that.

The flag dropped at Steve kicked Devil into action, spurring him on to charge down the lists as he aimed the lance at his opponent’s breastplate. It felt heavy and unruly strapped to his arm and Steve didn’t know how the hell you were meant to aim something as cumbersome. The other knight charged towards him, lance aimed directly at Steve’s face. Steve turned his head for just a second to protect his eyes and then—BAM. A solid weight collided with his head. The blow sent Steve reeling back. It felt like he’d taken a punch from a mallet. His head was ringing and pain exploded behind his temples. He dropped his lance before he even had a chance to strike and wobbled, overbalancing. He was going to fall. Steve had just enough wherewithal to clamp his thighs around the horse and hold his balance as Devil cantered on and slowed to a halt.

As far as he could tell, Steve was still alive. His head was pounding and he felt flushed with restless energy, and his breath was short. But he was alive, and more importantly; he was still on his horse.

“We won!” Sam cheered and Steve felt hands on his leg. He glanced down, struggling to see through the visor of his helmet which was now badly bent and misshapen against his face. “Are you alright, are you alive?” Sam was grinning.

“I think so.” Steve grinned back, even though Sam couldn’t see it.

“We won! We _won_!” Sam’s delight was enough for Steve to stop worrying about the ringing in his ears. They’d get to eat tonight, that was more important than any potential long-term damage.

Sam helped Steve climb down from the horse, and pointed Steve in the direction of the presentation ceremony being set up in the centre of the lists. His legs felt like jelly and Steve clung to Sam’s arm as he staggered forwards to accept his prize.

“Sir Phillips,” the tournament host greeted him. “Please remove your helmet.”

Steve froze, flooding with fear and stupidity; how had they forgotten about this part of the proceedings? How could he explain Sir Phillip’s sudden change in appearance from a middling, drunken old fool to the scrappy, fresh-faced young man they’d no doubt seen squiring for him during the rest of the tournament? Luckily, Sam still had his wits about him.

“My Lord, the final blow of the lance has bent the helmet onto Sir Phillips’s head,” Sam told the host.

Steve couldn’t really see what was happening and waited with bated breath for what felt like one very long moment before the tense atmosphere faded.

“I present your champion, my Lord,” the herald spoke and Steve felt Sam guiding his hands to collect the tournament prize. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it felt very delicate in his gloved hands. Right then he didn’t care; he was just relieved that they were finally going to be able to eat.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The prize turned out to be a delicate golden feather, Steve twisted it in his hands, watching the sunlight play against it.

“Hopefully we can sell it on the road, come on, let’s get going,” Sam urged him.

They struck camp quickly and left before the tournament dinner that evening, using the chaos of the last day of the tournament to slip away without being noticed. They sold the golden feather to the first peddler they found on the road, knowing they could have got more for it if they waited until they reached town, but desperate to turn the useless golden ornament into transactional coins. At the first church they passed, they spared some coins for Sir Phillips, letting the priest know where his body could be found and paying enough to ensure he received the proper burial rites. He may have been a hopeless drunk who flittered away all of his gold without ensuring Steve, Sam or Devil got to eat first—but that was only in recent years. Before that he’d been a generous employer; he’d been almost like a father to Steve since Steve had been squired to him as a young boy.

Steve remembered that day all too well. His ma had scrubbed him clean, washing him so thoroughly that Steve’s skin had felt pink and raw. She’d dressed him in the finest pair of clothes he had and even tried to tame his flyaway blonde hair. She’d kissed him repeatedly and kept telling him how much she loved him, which Steve thought was odd at first. On the walk towards the port she gripped his hand so tightly, even when Steve squirmed and tried to free himself, she wouldn’t let him go. Steve wished he'd paid more attention to everything she tried to tell him as they walked. She pointed out flowers to him, naming them, telling him which ones were edible, which ones could be used as cures.

“Oh, there’s still so much I haven’t taught you,” she lamented. She kept muttering odd little facts to him, telling him to care for his shoes and his coat, to remember his manners, to try to stay out of fights, to remember that she loved him no matter what. None of it had made a lick of sense until they reached the port and approached a tall, well-dressed man with a small retinue of servants.

“Sir Phillips?” Steve’s mother spoke up and the man turned to face them. “I’m Sarah Rogers, I treated your knee.”

“Yes, I remember. Is this the boy?”

Steve glanced up at his mother, confused.

“Step forward, son, let me look at you,” Sir Phillips instructed.

His mother gently steered Steve to stand in front of the strange, well-dressed man.

“Are you afraid of me, boy?”

Steve thought that was an odd question. He stared up at the knight and squared his narrow bony shoulders. He was confused, and something about this situation scared him, but he wasn’t scared of the man.

“No,” he said as boldly as he could.

That made the man smile. “Have you got most of your teeth?”

Steve glanced back to his mother who gave him an encouraging but sad smile. Steve flashed a grimace at the man proving that he had _all_ of his teeth, thank you very much.

“Show me your arm, is it strong?”

Steve flexed his arm. He looked small and weak, but he could hold his own.

“Well, he’s a half-starved little scarecrow, but he has spirit,” the man said to Steve’s mother before he turned back to Steve and crouched before him. “I can show you a great wide world full of adventure and marvels you do not yet dream of,” he said. “Can you pack my horse and lead it?”

Steve’s confusion grew. Was this a job interview? Was he being offered a job? He glanced back up to his ma who was no longer on the verge of tears but was instead openly crying.

“Ma?” Steve asked.

“It’s okay, Stevie. It’s okay. He’s a knight, Steve. A real knight and he’s going to take care of you, okay?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will do one day, my love.” She hugged him close and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Watch him and learn all you can. It’s all I can do for you, Stevie. He can take better care of you now than I can. Now go, change your stars and live a better life than I have.”

Steve clung to his mother, as realisation finally sunk in. He was being sent away. With hindsight, he could spot the signs. There hadn’t been enough food for years, his mother was growing sickly and pale as she gave everything she had to Steve; making sure he ate whenever he could and living off dandelion tea herself. Even then, Steve was frequently ill and despite his mother’s own skill as a healer he needed doctors and their expensive medicines that left their stores depleted and wiped out. Years later, Steve had asked Phillips why he took Steve on, him the son of a nobody, to be a knight’s squire, and Phillips had told Steve of his mother’s kindness. She’d cured him of an ache that had ailed him all his life with a simple balm, and—instead of charging him a fortune for her repeat custom—had simply told him how to make it himself. Steve had laughed, that was his mother alright; too kind and generous for her own good. When Phillips had asked for a way to repay her, she’d told him of her son; and how she wished she could change his stars and offer him a better life.

Phillips had mostly kept his promise. He looked after Steve and paid for doctors and medicines whenever he fell ill, which Steve knew was far more than most people would have done. He’d even paid for Steve to see a specialist in one town, who’d concocted and a draught for Steve to drink that seemed to solve the problem with his lungs once and for all. Steve was never certain that there hadn’t been some magic involved.

There wasn’t a day that went by that Steve didn’t miss his mother, but he knew she’d done the best for him she could, and even though Sir Phillips had always been brisk and stern, he’d loved Steve in his own way and been kind to him, until his age caught up with him and the aches and pains of injuries sustained from years of jousting turned him to drink. He deserved a proper burial. Steve would have spent more on him and would have stuck around to ensure it was done properly if he’d been able to, but he knew they couldn’t afford to.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

They rented a cheap room in the next town and Sam and Steve enjoyed their first hot meal for weeks, washing it down with golden ale that, for once, didn’t taste like warm piss.

“God, this is the life,” Sam moaned around his pie. “I could get used to this.”

Steve counted out the coins they had left, thinking hard. “Maybe we could.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a tournament in Astoria in a month,” he hinted, wagging his eyebrows until Sam understood.

“No.” Sam shut Steve down before he’d even started to explain his idea.

“Why not?”

“It’ll never work!”

“It did work! You’re eating the spoils,” Steve protested. “Think about it, Sam; a month from now we could be on our way to glory and riches.”

“Or lying in a ditch with Sir Phillips,” Sam scoffed. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening before leaning across the table to hiss at Steve, “You don’t even know how to joust.”

“Most of it is the guts to take a blow. Guts I have,” Steve countered. “And technique? I have a month to learn that!” The more he thought about it, the more this seemed like a brilliant plan. “I’m not saying we do this forever. Just until we have enough money to get home.” Until Steve had saved enough to make his mother’s life comfortable and buy that cottage on the edge of town she’d always dreamed of, at least he hoped she’d still dreamed of. It had been almost twelve years since he’d last seen her.

“You’re not of noble birth,” Sam hissed.

“So, we lie.” Steve shrugged. “How did the nobles become noble in the first place? They took it. With the tip of a sword. I’ll do it with a lance.”

“A blunted lance,” Sam scoffed, but his scowl was lessening.

“We could do this Sam, we could change our stars,” Steve pleaded, then decided to change tack. “If you want to act as the knight, I’ll happily be your squire.”

Sam snorted at that. He sat back and shook his head, taking another drag of ale from his tankard before he answered.

“Hell no. If we’re doing this, you're going to be the one getting smashed to pieces in the lists.”

“So, we’re doing this?” Steve grinned.

Sam shook his head and looked very cross with himself when he sighed. “Yeah, I guess we’re doing this. God love you, Steve.”

“I know, I know,” Steve grinned, “no one else will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(PS, I know it should technically be Sir Chester, rather than Sir Phillips - but I thought that sounded too confusing!)_


	2. Ipheion Uniflorum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for you comments, I'm really glad you're all excited to see where this goes 😊✨

The road to Astoria was hot and dusty. Steve and Sam trudged along under the baking heat of the sun, whilst Devil pulled a cart laden with all of their belongings. It was the fourth day of their hike, and after nearly three weeks of training—rigging practicing jousting rings in the forest and wasting their supplies to buy new lances and grain for Devil—they were down to their last few coins. To save money, they’d been sleeping in hedgerows, so they were both utterly exhausted, not to mention, covered head-to-toe in sweat, dust, and grime.

“We have to stop somewhere before we reach Astoria,” Sam said as they trudged. “You’re never going to convince anyone you're a knight looking like that.”

Steve swept a hand through the tangled mess of his blonde hair and plucked at the coarse fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, I guess we should. It’ll use the last of our savings.”

“Worth it,” Sam protested. “God I would kill for a bath right now.”

“I think there’s a stream up ahead,” Steve laughed.

“Don’t tempt me.” Sam grinned back.

Devil plodded along beside them as they walked, his flanks slick with sweat. They’d need to let him rest before the tournament too, or else Steve wasn’t going to stand a chance against the other knights with their entourages and teams of horses to draw their carriages. They’d passed one such carriage the night before, dark and spiked with mean-looking ornamentation, stopped beside a roadside inn with two irritated looking footmen standing guard. Steve and Sam had stared longingly at the brightly lit windows and the warmth and comfort that seeped out from the inn, but they’d pressed on. After setting aside money to re-shoe Devil and to buy enough grain and food, not to mention the costs of repairing Phillip’s armour, and buying lances for Steve to practice with—their money bags were too light to fritter away gold on luxury.

“One day,” Steve had promised, “when we win this tournament.”

The road cut through fields of golden barley, lined by a grassy bank so densely covered in white flowers it almost looked like a blanket of white snow. Sloping hills rolling away in the distance, broken up by thick hedgerows and copses of trees. Ironvhan was a beautiful country, Steve had spent the past twelve years traipsing around its beautiful and diverse countryside in the employ of Philips, but sometimes he longed for the sight of the sea, to smell the salt in the air and feel the breeze on his face as he stood on the cliffs of his home in Red Hook, Breuckelen, more than four hundred miles away.

A particularly dense copse bordered the road up ahead and they hastened towards it and the shady respite it would provide. As they drew closer, however, they noticed the black carriage from yesterday stopped in the road; clearly sharing the same idea. The footmen were milling around, looking sour-faced whilst the knight in question dined at a small trestle table under the shade of the towering oak trees that lined the road. He was sneering at the woman waiting on him in a way that made Steve instantly dislike him. The woman was slight, with striking red hair neatly plaited down her back, and as Sam and Steve approached, it was clear she was uncomfortable.

Steve slowed his pace, reluctant to just walk by.

“Let it go, it’s not our place,” Sam hissed, reading Steve’s body language and fixing him with a warning stare as they passed the roadside scene.

Steve gripped Devil’s halter tightly and forced himself to press on. Sam was right, as squires it wasn’t their place to question or challenge a knight of such obviously high status. But as a _knight . . ._ Steve slowed again, glancing back to watch the knight grip the woman’s arm with a hold that looked strong enough to snap it clean in half. If Steve wanted to play the part of a knight once they reached Astoria, now seemed like as good a time as any to start. When the woman shrieked as the knight groped her, Steve couldn’t stand idly by. Nor could Sam.

Steve set Devil off down the road and doubled back to charge to the woman’s defence.

“Unhand her!” he demanded, drawing Sir Philip’s sword on the knight.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the knight demanded back.

“I’m a knight of the realm.” Steve puffed up his chest, getting into character with ease. “It is my sworn duty to protect people of all status,” he answered.

The knight scoffed and nodded his head. Suddenly his footmen advanced on Steve, drawing weapons of their own. It was light work to push them back, Steve had always been a skilled swordsman. Ever since his growth spurt, Phillips had sparred against Steve as training, and it wasn’t long before Steve got the upper hand. With Sam fighting by his side, the footmen really didn’t stand a chance. They fell back, falling into a tangled unconscious heap, and Steve rounded on the knight.

“Unhand her,” Steve repeated, turning his sword on the knight.

The knight growled but didn’t back down. In a flash, his own weapon was drawn and he lashed out at Steve with a vicious blow. Steve parried and hit back, sending the sound of steel clashing against steel ringing out in the otherwise quiet road. Steve followed the blow with a punch that sent the knight stumbling backward. He tried to thrust at Steve again, but Steve easily pushed the blow aside and sent the hilt of his sword forcefully into the man’s face; knocking him out cold. The man dropped like a lead weight.

Steve sheathed his sword and turned to the lady, ready to ask if she was alright. But rather than being grateful, the woman shoved both hands on Steve’s chest and pushed him back, looking furious at him.

“You imbecile!” she shouted. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Steve blinked, confused. He’d helped her, hadn’t he?

“You self-righteous, noble, meddling oaf! Do you have any idea how long I spent trying to get close to—” she cut herself off with a shake of her head, still glowering at Steve. “Do you know who that is?” she asked, pointing to the knight sprawled humiliatingly in the dirt. “No, clearly not. That’s Lord Rumlow,” she said, letting that name hang in the air.

Steve shared a look with Sam, still confused. The name didn’t mean anything to him. Rumlow wasn’t a knight Phillips had crossed before and outside of the tournament politics, Steve’s knowledge of current affairs was sorely lacking. Judging from Sam’s expression, the name meant nothing to him either.

“A knight of _Hydra_ ,” the woman added, sensing his ignorance.

Oh. That was a name Steve knew all too well. Hydra had been at war with Breuckelen for as long as Steve could remember. A fearsome, tyrannical empire that had conquered much of the west and kept trying to push east. The tireless efforts of Breuckelen’s army were the only thing holding them back. Steve had often argued that Phillips should be out fighting rather than playing in tournaments, but his arguments had always fallen on deaf ears.

“What in the hell is he doing here?” Ironvhan was east of Breuckelen, but its lands were vast and they shared a coastline to the north and south. Whilst Hydra’s navy was hell bent on causing havoc for Breuckelen, Hydra rarely entered Ironvhan’s waters.

“The King invited him to the tournament. An attempt to broker peace, I believe,” the woman replied. Which probably had something to do with why Hydra never directly attacked Ironvhanian ships, Steve supposed. “You’ve made yourself a powerful enemy.”

Steve glanced down at Lord Rumlow and his footman all sprawled in a heap around him.

“I had to intervene. He was causing you distress,” Steve insisted.

“Had to. You just couldn’t stop yourself from meddling.” The woman just rolled her eyes. “And what, exactly, am I meant to do know that you’ve insulted my employer on my behalf?”

“Come with me. I’ll see you safely to Astoria, I’ll,” Steve faltered, suddenly unsure and wondering if perhaps he _had_ only succeeded in cocking everything up for her. Work wasn’t always easy to come by, perhaps attending on a Lord, no matter how despicable he was, was better than nothing. “I’ll help you find work. I’ll vouch for you. Or, you can work for me,” he added, risking another glance back at Sam and finding him scowling at Steve with a pair of arched and cross looking eyebrows.

“Who _are_ you?” the woman asked, peering at him and his road-wearing attire.

Steve straightened his posture and took as much of a noble affectation to his voice as he could. “I’m Sir Steven . . .” Steve began with confidence before he faltered at the first hurdle. ‘Rogers’ was hardly a noble-sounding name. He and Sam hadn’t got as far as coming up with backstories yet. He glanced around, spotting more of the white flowers that had lined the bank of the road; _Ipheion Uniflorum,_ his mother’s favourite flower, with their star flower blooms. “Ipheion,” he said with confidence. “Lord of . . . Mar-vell.”

The lady snorted. “Right and I’m the King of Asgard,” she laughed. Anger and fear flashed through Steve. If _she_ didn’t believe him, no one else surely would. “You’re headed to Astoria?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “For the tournament?”

“Yes.”

“You know they’re limiting the field. Noble birth must be established for four generations on either side of the family. Patents of nobility _must_ be provided.”

Steve and Sam shared a worried look.

“You’re no knight,” the woman scoffed. “But you fight like one.” She allowed. “Alright, get me to Astoria and I’ll help you enter the tournament.”

Steve frowned at her, confused as to the way she wanted to help them all of a sudden, but before he could argue, Rumlow and his guards began to stir.

“Come on, before he wakes up.” The woman grabbed Steve’s arm and dragged him down the road.

They fled the scene, catching up with Devil who was waiting patiently a little way down the road before they turned off to take a rutted track carved between two hedgerows that was too narrow for the carriage to follow them. They slipped away, soon entering dense woodland where it would be impossible for Rumlow or his men to follow without difficulty.

“Who are you?” it was Steve’s turn to ask.

“You can call me Natasha,” she replied. “What are your real names?”

“Steve.”

“Sam.”

“You’ll have to fix your appearance before we get to Astoria.”

“We know,” Sam intoned.

“There’s an inn two leagues from here. We should stop and make preparations,” Natasha continued.

“Okay,” Steve agreed. He didn’t entirely trust Natasha or her sudden change of heart, but Devil had taken to her instantly and Steve had always trusted Devil’s judge of character.

When they reached the inn, Natasha paid for their rooms as a, “thank you for rescuing me,” which she said rather sarcastically, and then disappeared to find ‘supplies’.

“Do you trust her?” Sam asked as he soaked himself in the tub of warm water they’d paid extra to be delivered to their room.

“I don’t think we have much choice,” Steve replied. “She already suspects too much.”

“We could leave now. Sell the armour and the horse and we’d have just enough to get back home if we managed to pick up some fieldwork along the way.”

Steve sat on the bed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I can’t. I can’t go home yet, Sam.”

“I’m sure your ma would just be happy to see you alive and well,” Sam protested. Whilst Steve knew that was true, he couldn’t shake the last words she’d spoken to him. ‘ _Change your stars’_.

“She sent me away to find a better life, Sam. I can’t let her sacrifice have been for nothing. If we win this tournament, we’ll have _gold_ to take home. Don’t you want that?”

“I know, I know,” Sam sighed. “But you’re stubborn, ambitious, and too kind-hearted for your own good. It’s a bad combination, Steve, one that’s going to get you killed.”

Steve nodded. It was a risk, trusting Natasha, one Steve could only hope would pay off.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Natasha returned with parchment and ink and the three of them set about the laborious task of drawing up fake patents of nobility for ‘Sir Steven Ipheion’. Steve was lucky that his mother had insisted on teaching him his letters as a child, and he’d often helped her draw up recipes using coloured inks made from the herbs used in her medicines. He’d always had a good hand for inking and drawing, and with Natasha’s surprising knowledge of knights and nobles, they managed to draw up a passable family tree. ‘Lord Ipheion’ was descended from lesser nobles and military generals spanning back five generations, just to be safe. Steve inked a white star flanked by the flowers he’d taken for his name, on a background of red, white, and blue, to be his coat of arms. As the ink dried he gazed over it with a sense of pride.

“Looks good,” Sam said over his shoulder.

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“Only one way to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the place names are stolen from neighbourhoods in New York, apart from Ironvhan (I wonder if you can guess who is King there...😉) and Breuckelen, which is the old Dutch name for Brooklyn 😊
> 
> I promise Bucky will turn up soon! 💙💙💙


	3. Astoria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things I love about the film is the anachronisms and also how they use 'current' music in the soundtrack....which means the 'old Breuckelen lullaby' that appears in this chapter, might be a little familiar 😉

The sprawling city of Astoria was another three leagues from their inn. They set off at dawn and soon joined the throng of people arriving for the tournament. Multi-coloured tents already covered the fields surrounding the city walls, and peddlers selling all manner of wares set themselves up along the King’s Road into town. They passed through the city gates and found even more chaos inside. The tournament was being held to celebrate the anniversary of a successful resolution of some local skirmish, according to Natasha. Banners and bunting fluttered from the windows of every building they passed, as well as being strung across the narrow streets, crisscrossing from building to building. Steve wasn’t sure if it was his nerves that made the whole thing feel more exciting, or if there was more of a party atmosphere in the air than normal.

Natasha slipped away from them as soon as they reached the town, citing that she had matters to attend to and Steve let her go; far more concerned with his own problems as he and Sam set out to register for the tournament. Sam, acting as Steve’s herald, presented the patents of nobility and indicated that Steve would compete in the Sword contest along with the Joust. Steve hung back, sitting astride Devil and waiting with bated breath as his patents were scrutinised. This was where the whole charade could fall down around their ears; if any discrepancies were found, they would find themselves standing trial in short order. But the organisers just nodded and added Steve’s patents to the pile, informing Sam of where they could pitch their tent and when to report for the first round of each competition.

Steve felt elated and a surge of relief course through him. He grinned at Sam as he returned, but Sam just shook his head with a laugh.

“Now for the hard part,” Sam said.

Steve was confused for a second before he remembered: now they’d entered the tournament, he actually had to compete.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Steve’s first appearance was in the Sword ring. After situating Devil in the stables, ensuring he had plenty of hay to chow down, and helping Sam pitch their tent in the allotted field—Steve donned Phillip’s heavy, ill-fitting, out-dated armour and plodded through the crowds to face his opponent. The sword ring was boxed in a small square with buildings overhanging on all four sides, and spectators clutched flags and chanted loudly, peering in from all angles. It was all very intimidating as Steve stepped into the ring and hefted his sword into his hand. His opponent stepped forward, cutting an intimidating figure in polished steel armour; a mountain of a man wielding a great two-handed sword.

Steve quaked in his boots, suddenly feeling all the weariness of their five-day hike. Next time they were going to have to make sure he had more time to rest between travelling and competing, Steve thought as he ducked and parried the heavy blows from his opponent; aching all over far more quickly than he would have liked. But Steve had always been light on his feet and soon the adrenaline kicked in. Steve fought against his exhaustion, beating his opponent back into a corner and before swiping his legs from under him and sending him toppling to the ground.

“Lord Ipheion!” the herald overseeing the match shouted, raising Steve’s hand to indicate his victory. The crowd roared for him and Steve stood basking in their praise for a moment, flushed with pride and excitement, as the crowd began to chant his name—well, his fake name at any rate. They could do this, Steve knew then; they really had a chance. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself being crowned tournament champion, riding back to his ma in Red Hook with gold—enough to buy the house she’d always dreamed of, enough that she wouldn’t have to work unless she wanted to, enough to make it worth having sent him away.

“C’mon, or we’ll be late in the lists,” Sam urged, pulling Steve from the lofty heights of his imagination, and crashing rudely back to solid ground.

“I knew it was a mistake to compete in two events,” Steve complained as Sam helped him ready Devil for the joust. “I’m already exhausted.”

“But the sword is by far what you’re best at,” Sam countered, tightening Devil’s saddle with a strong tug. “Let’s see how you do today before we make any rash decisions.”

“Fair enough.” Steve rolled his shoulders in his armour and stamped from foot to foot to shake the growing stiffness from his legs. He jumped on the spot to get his blood pumping again, and jostled his heavy armour in the process, causing Devil to snort in displeasure as it rattled. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The jousting field was the heart of the tournament grounds. 150 yards long, separated by the ‘list’, a long narrow fence that separated the knights as they charged towards each other. Crowds of spectators lined the wooden rows of seats that had been erected specially for the tournament. On the side that backed onto the city walls sat the nobles on cushioned benches, with the Lord and Lady who governed Astoria sitting in high-backed chairs beneath floaty cloth canopy decorated with the city crest. Straight backed servants stood in attendance, ready to fill their goblets with fresh wine, or bearing platters laden with delicacies. Opposite, lined up along the bank of the river, stood the common folk, pressed together in a crush of excitement. Steve waved to them as he rode into the lists, earning himself a loud cheer.

“Remember you’re a _knight_ , Steve,” Sam tutted at him and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve waved away Sam’s concern and continued waving at the common folk.

“And whatever happens—stay on the horse,” Sam reminded Steve as he passed his helmet up to him; the helmet that they’d only just been able to beat back into shape. It still sat uncomfortably on Steve’s face and his field of view was incredibly limited.

“I know.” Steve sighed.

He knew the rules like the back of his hand: one point was given for breaking a lance between the waist and neck; two points for breaking on the helmet—which was difficult, helmets were designed to sweep back and most blows glanced off; three points for bearing a rider to the ground. Each knight made three passes against each other, chagrining down the lists, and the knight with the most points went through. An unhorsed knight was immediately withdrawn from the competition, but—due to the uneven number of knights who entered any given tournament—you could still progress to the next round based on points. In some tournaments, if a knight unhorsed another, they were eligible to claim that knight’s horse as well. From what Steve had seen, the code of chivalry usually prevented a knight from claiming that prize, but you could never be certain. Without Devil, not only would they be out of the tournament, but they’d have a hard time finding enough money to get home. Not to mention, Steve would be loath to part with Devil; he’d helped rear him since Phillips bought him as a foal.

“I’m not going to lose you,” Steve assured Devil, leaning down to rub a hand along Devil’s neck. Devil snorted in response and pawed his front leg on the ground.

At the opposite end of the field, Steve’s opponent was busy readying himself, balancing his lance in his hand and eyeing up Steve. His armour was topped with a giant plume of yellow feathers and his mount was a deep brown destrier with white markings around its hooves that almost looked like stockings. The destrier was impatiently turning on the spot whilst the knight tried, unsuccessfully, to keep it still.

Trumpets heralded the start of the match, and the flag was lowered. Steve lowered his visor, instantly feeling the world narrow to the thin strip he could see through, and took his lance off Sam. He tilted it forwards, bracing it securely against his side, and spurred Devil into action.

Devil’s hooves thundered against the packed earth as they cantered down the lists. Steve aimed his lance, keeping his eyes fixed on his opponent this time, pointing it directly at the centre of the yellowed-plumed-knight’s chest. It collided with a jolt that jarred Steve’s shoulder as his lance broke against the knight’s breastplate.

He cantered back around to Sam feeling flush with adrenaline, his heart galloping in his chest. On one side the crowd cheered, whilst polite applause went up from the other.

“One to none!” Sam grinned, handing Steve a fresh lance. Steve ground his teeth in determination and readied himself for the second pass.

His opponent looked dazed and he didn’t put up much of a fight as Steve charged towards him, breaking a second lance on his opponents shield this time. The third time they faced each other, the other knight didn’t even bring up his lance and Steve spared the yellow-plumed-knight another blow, raising his lance at the last moment to canter harmlessly past.

“You should have taken him down!” Sam chided as he gripped Devil’s halter to rein him in.

“Wouldn’t have been chivalrous,” Steve replied.

Sam just scoffed. “Not sure what about this counts as chivalry. You’re charging against each other with sticks for _no reason!_ ” he commented, which Steve couldn’t fault.

Maybe he should have pressed his advantage, used the opportunity to try and unhorse the yellow-plumed-knight, but Steve didn’t think it would have been fair. Anyway, he found it difficult to care—they’d successfully advanced to the next round in both the Sword and the Joust, and no one suspected a thing; his elation was impossible to deflate.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

“Any injuries?” Sam checked as Steve dismounted in the stables and they began the arduous task of removing Steve’s armour.

“Nothing to worry about.” Steve’s shoulder felt sore, but it would fade with some chamomile oil—which his mother had always sworn by.

Sam took the armour back to their tent to clean and polish in readiness for tomorrow, leaving Steve to attend to Devil. It was how their jobs had always been divided before and there was no reason to do any differently now. Steve was only pretending to be a knight after all; unlike the actual Lords and nobles, he still had to pull his weight.

Steve rubbed down Devil’s flanks with a damp cloth and began to brush out his coat. It was soothing work, and Devil snorted with contentment as Steve’s hands brushed over him. Outside cheers from the tournament crowds filtered through the open doorways of the stables, but inside all was peaceful, with just Devil and the other horses braying softly, snicking and shuffling in their stalls; accompanied by soft huffs of breath and swishes of their tails, the crunch of hay, and sloshes of water being lapped up from troughs. Steve had always liked the peace and calm of the stables. It was soothing work, brushing his hands along the smooth warm flanks of Devil, feeling the strength of the muscles beneath his glossy coat, or polishing the saddle and reins with lanolin to keep them in good condition.

After he finished his chores, Steve would often upend a bucket and sit sketching Devil on scraps of parchment using quills and inks he painstakingly made from feathers or reeds and herbs he collected on the roadside as they travelled from tournament town to tournament town. Sometimes Steve wondered what his life might have been like if he’d been apprenticed to a scribe instead of a knight, but the thought of spending his days cooped up in the stuffy rooms of a Lord’s residence, keeping notes on meetings, transcribing correspondence or military strategies, and shuddered at the thought. He felt far more at home in the open air, using his muscles to the point of exhaustion; he’d never been very good at sitting still for too long. _‘Too much restless energy,’_ Phillips had often chided him for. Even sketching could only hold Steve’s attention for so long.

He moved on from washing Devil down and started to brush the horse's deep red coat with swift, sure movements. He was pulled from his thoughts by a low singing that carried across the stables.

_“I have a dream, a song to sing, to help me cope with anything,_   
_If you see the wonder of a fairy tale, you can take the future even if you fail,”_

The lyrics stirred memories from deep within Steve’s chest. It was an old Breuckelen lullaby his ma had often sung to rock him to sleep, sometimes he’d even hear her singing it under her breath as they gathered flowers in the woods, or as she crushed herbs with her pestle and mortar in her narrow, poky workshop.

_“I believe in angels, something good in everything I see,_   
_I believe in angels, when I know the time is right for me._   
_I'll cross the stream, I have a dream.”_

Steve hadn’t heard it sung for years and the deep tenor of the voice was beautiful to listen to. Steve couldn’t help but add his voice to the second verse, which had always been his favourite.

_“I have a dream, a fantasy, to help me through reality_   
_And my destination makes it worth the while,_   
_Pushing through the darkness still another mile.”_

Steve sang, not noticing that the other voice trailed off until he was left singing on his own. _“I believe in angels, when I know the time is right for me . . .”_ Steve trailed off and tensed, not meaning to catch the other person's attention. Rustling footsteps told Steve someone was approaching, and the back of his neck burned red; he stepped behind Devil to hide.

“You know that song?” the man asked, sounded delighted.

Steve glanced up and the first thought that crossed his mind was that maybe angels did exist after all. The man before him was beautiful, with bright eyes and soft brown hair that swept across his forehead and fell to his shoulders in soft waves. Judging from his clothes, and the sweat stains that darkened the collar and underarms of his tunic, Steve assumed he was a squire. Judging from his voice and the curl of his smile, he might have walked cleanly out of Steve’s dreams.

“My ma used to sing it to me.” Steve nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. You have a lovely singing voice,” he added with a shy smile.

The squire grinned back. “Yours could use some work.” He laughed. “Are you from Breuckelen?”

“Oh, no,” Steve lied, feeling his flush darken; he’d always been terrible at twisting the truth, and whilst it would be unlikely that this squire would recognise him, Steve couldn’t risk anything getting out.

“Your mother then?”

Steve tried to recall the family tree he’d invented for ‘Lord Ipheion’, fairly certain his mother was supposed to be the daughter of a lesser Asgardian noble.

“I think her nurse was,” Steve offered, rather than denying anything outright. He could feel his ears burning and the wry smile the squire gave him was enough to let him know the squire didn’t entirely believe him. Thankfully the squire didn’t press the matter, just looked Steve up and down, giving Steve the feeling of being appraised. Whoever this was, he was a confident young man, unfairly attractive too. Steve couldn’t find it in himself to look away from the man’s eyes, or the delightful bow of his lips, the slight dimple in his chin. “I’m Steve,” he said after a beat, just to break the silence that hung thick and heavy in the air between them.

The squire smiled. “I know. Lord Ipheion.”

Oh. So, he _did_ know who Steve was. Damn. Steve suddenly felt self-conscious about his appearance, the simple homespun tunic he’d worn under his armour, and his generally dishevelled state was hardly befitting a knight.

“A knight tending to his own horse. Not something you often see,” the squired commented, his tone sounded more amused than accusatory, though.

“Well . . . how else do you build a bond?” Steve answered carefully, searching for a lie that sounded plausible. “Grooming is the easiest way to build trust.”

“I agree with you there.” The squire nodded. He stepped forwards to wrap his hands gently around Devil’s nose. Steve expected Devil to shy away, but to his surprise, Devil nuzzled forwards and nosed at the squire’s chest. “You ride well,” he commented off-hand, looking at Devil rather than at Steve, but Steve suspected it was directed to him. “I saw you joust earlier. I was very impressed.”

Steve’s chest swelled a little with pride and he found himself smiling.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, then cast about for further conversation, desperate not to let this man disappear just yet. “The knight you squire for, does he joust?”

“He tries,” the squire replied, looking up at Steve with an unreadable gleam in his eye. “You though, raw talent. And fearlessness.”

Steve shook his head and brushed his hand down Devil’s back. “I’m not fearless,” he said.

“You ride like you are. The slit in your visor is narrow, but splinters can penetrate it. Most knights raise their chins at the last instant; they lose sight of your opponent but protect their eyes. You don’t. You keep your eyes on the target,” the squire said in a soft tone.

Steve glanced back to him, unsure of how to answer. In the end, words failed him and he simply watched the squire carefully thread his fingers through Devil’s silky red hair. He was infinitely careful and his touch looked tender. Steve was struck by a strange, intense curiosity of what it would feel like to have the man’s hands card like that through his own hair.

“I’ll be rooting for you.” The squired smiled again and then stepped away, heading for the stable doors.

“Wait,” Steve called after him, staggering to the edge of Devil’s stall. “I didn’t catch your name?”

The squire gave Steve a confused look and Steve belatedly realised that most knights wouldn’t care for the names of squires.

“My name?” he asked, twisting his mouth into another smile. “And what would you do with my name, Lord Ipheion?”

Steve faltered. He couldn’t say why he needed this man’s name, or why it felt so urgent that he see him again.

“Perhaps angels have no names,” Steve said before he could lose his nerve. “Only beautiful faces.”

The man tipped his head back and laughed. “Bucky. You can call me Bucky.” He flashed Steve another smile and then disappeared before Steve could say anything else, or ask if he might see him again.


	4. Crossbones

Sam had a small fire going when Steve trooped back from the stables in a daze. Their small cooking pot was hanging over it and the smell of an herby rabbit stew wafted from underneath the lid. To Steve’s immense surprise Natasha was perched beside Sam, chopping vegetables to add to the pot; Steve had just assumed she’d gone her own way once she’d disappeared earlier.

“You’re back,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“Had some errands to run,” she replied, evasive and elusive as ever, giving Steve a wolfish smile.

“Errands?” Steve glanced at Sam to see if he was happy with the explanation.

“She bought us food.” Sam shrugged.

To be honest, with their recent track record of almost starving, maybe that was all of an explanation they needed. Steve left Sam and Natasha to mind the cooking and ducked into the tent to pack the lanolin and Devil’s brushes away before he dug his small collection of salves and medicinal herbs he carried in a small chest at the bottom of his bag. He’d tried to stock up his collection on their journey to Astoria, but if he took such a beating every day, he was going to need to replenish his supplies sooner than he’d hoped. Trusting Natasha not to enter unannounced, Steve stripped out of his shirt and inspected the bruising across his ribs and shoulder, both of which had turned a lovely dappled plum colour. He rubbed some arnica paste across his ribs and used chamomile oil to ease the ache in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar heady fragrance; the smell alone was almost enough to soothe the ache.

Steve settled on the edge of the bed, intending to let the salves dry for a moment before putting his shirt back on, he didn’t mean to stay for long, but the exhaustion of the day caught up with him and he was fighting to keep his eyes open from the moment he sat down.

“Steve?”

The sound of Sam’s voice jolted Steve back to consciousness. He realised he must have nodded off when he found himself sprawled backward on the bed, still shirtless, and feeling foggy-headed from an interrupted nap.

Realising he’d caught Steve napping, Sam laughed and swiped at Steve’s legs. “Rise and shine, your Lordship. We’ve got guests.”

“Wha’?” Steve managed to mumble, dragged a hand across his face to dislodge the sleep from his eyes.

“And grubs up.” Sam threw Steve’s shirt at him and ducked back out of the tent. As the flap closed behind him, Steve noticed it was growing dark outside and felt a swoop of guilt; he hadn’t meant to sleep for that long.

He scrambled into his shirt and hurried to pack away the herbs and creams before he lost the light to see by. Dragging a hand through his hair to try and hide the obvious fact that he’d just been sleeping on it, Steve wondered who on earth Sam could mean by ‘guests’. His mind reeled through a list of potentialities, but nowhere on that list had it crossed Steve’s mind that Bucky would be standing by the fireside with a companion Steve didn’t recognise.

“Lord Ipheion,” Bucky greeted Steve with a half bow as Steve ducked under the tent flap. He froze in his tracks before breaking into a wide grin.

“Please, it’s Steve,” he replied, smiling from ear to ear, delighted to have crossed paths again so soon and—honestly—feeling relieved that Bucky hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. Lit by the fading pink light of the sun against the purple sky of dusk, Steve thought Bucky looked even more charming and handsome than he had in the stables. He'd changed into a pale blue doublet that matched his eyes—not that Steve was paying particular attention to the steel blue of Bucky’s eyes, or how shapely his legs were beneath his woollen trousers. Steve tore his eyes from Bucky and glanced at Sam instead who'd raised an eyebrow in a very knowing, and very weary manner.

“Sir Steven,” Bucky conceded, “If it’s not an imposition, I thought we might join you for dinner, I can offer you bread and wine?”

“Of course, of course, the more the merrier.” Steve gestured to their small cooking fire. “Bucky, please meet Sam and Natasha, my squires. This is Bucky, and?”

“Clint,” Bucky’s companion answered with a small nodding bow.

“I became acquainted with Bucky in the stables earlier,” Steve explained to Sam.

Sam snorted what sounded like, “if that’s what you’re calling it now,” under his breath, which Steve resolutely ignored, despite how pink he felt his ears burning.

“Come sit, eat. There's enough to go around, right?” Steve glanced back and Sam and received an eye roll.

“Yeah, there's plenty for everyone.”

It had been over a week since the last rain and the ground was firm and dry, still, Steve spread blankets around the fire for them to sit and eat. He expected Bucky to sit beside Sam, or perhaps Natasha, and he was unprepared for Bucky to settle beside him instead; so close, their crossed knees almost touched.

Sam dished out the stew whilst Clint doled out the wine and broke off portions of fresh, crusty white bread for them all to share, transforming their meagre stew into a veritable feast—by Sam and Steve’s standards anyway.

“Why aren’t you up at the castle?” Bucky asked between mouthfuls, speaking low enough not to draw the attention of the others. “With the other knights,” Bucky added when Steve continued to look clueless.

“Oh.” Steve took a mouthful to save himself from answering immediately. He caught Sam’s eyes across the fire; they were narrowed in concern, and Steve chose his next words carefully. “I’m not a fan of all that pomp and circumstance. Especially not the night before a joust.” Steve tried to brush it off, hoping it sounded believable.

“I don’t blame you.” Bucky grinned and nudged against Steve’s shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be up there, attending to your knight?”

“What? Oh, no, he passed out wine-drunk hours ago.” Bucky laughed. “It’s a miracle he still makes it into the lists at all these days.”

“I know that feeling.” Steve laughed, before clamping his mouth shut. “Um,” he faltered, fretting he'd given himself away; but it was more common for sons of nobles to act as squires and then train to become Knights themselves. For Phillips to have taken on Sam and Steve as peasants and elevated them to squires was rare indeed. In fact, Bucky, with his well-cut clothes and charming confidence was probably the son of a lesser lord or a Knight himself. Though if that were the case, it was unusual for him not to have taken the next step and been dubbed. He was certainly old enough, he looked to be about the same age as Steve himself.

Bucky just smiled and let Steve's comment slide. “Lord of Mar-Vell, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Steve washed down his lie with a swig of wine.

“I'm not familiar with it. Tell me about it?”

“Erm.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and shrugged. “Not much to tell. It's a small parcel of land, truth be told I haven't been home in a long time.” He half-lied. He hadn’t been home in a long time, but the fictional place of Mar-Vell had never been his home.

“Touring the tournaments for prize money and fame?” Bucky teased.

Steve blushed unto his stew.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“What's Breuckelen like?” Steve steered the conversation away from himself.

“Ah. The best place on earth. Though of course, I might be biased.” Bucky grinned.

“Where did you grow up?”

“I'm from the capital.” Bucky lapsed into tales from his childhood, about messing around with his younger sisters in the stables and gardens near the Palace, of the places he'd toured in service as a squire. Steve's heart trilled to hear details of his home country that he missed so dearly.

Night fell gradually until only the flickering glow from the fire was left to illuminate their gathering. Similar cooking fires were dotted around the camping grounds, each filled with raucous laughter and conversation, songs, and even the sound of a lute drifted from different directions whilst their fire crackled before them. The burned logs crumbled into ash and the fire hissed whenever they topped it up with fresh wood. Steve was entranced by Bucky and his tales, and as the darkness fell like a cloak around them, it was easy for Steve to lose himself in Bucky's presence, forgetting that Sam, Nat, and Clint were seated on the other side of the fire.

That was until Sam cleared his throat and called, “isn't that right, Steve?”

“Beg pardon?” Steve glanced up, at Sam whose face glowed in the firelight.

“I said, you've defeated Rumlow before, you’re not scared of facing him in the lists tomorrow.”

“Rumlow?” Steve hadn't checked the schedule yet, he hadn't expected to come up against Rumlow again so soon.

“I hear he's a formidable opponent,” Bucky commented. “They call him ‘Crossbones’, don’t they?”

Clint nodded.

“Well, if his jousting is anything like he swordsmanship, I'm not worried.” Steve laughed, trying to sound braver than he felt in a foolish attempt to impress Bucky—who’d already declared himself impressed by Steve's apparent fearlessness in the lists.

“I’ll be rooting for you,” Bucky assured Steve, with a sly nudge of his shoulder, and Steve's heart swelled with pride. Sam just arched an eyebrow in exasperation, whilst Natasha and Clint both eyed them critically.

Later that night, after Bucky and Clint had bidden them good night and returned to their tents, Sam took Steve aside and hissed a warning at him.

“You need to be careful. We don't know anything about him, don't forget and drop your guard just because he flashes you a pretty smile.”

“A pretty smile,” Steve scoffed. “I'm not, he's not…” Steve spluttered without actually managing to defend himself.

“Yeah. Alright. Just be careful.”

“When am I not?”

“I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer.” Sam retorted and stalked into the tent. Steve turned back to Natasha for backup but she just held up her hands.

“I'm staying out of it.”

Steve couldn’t begrudge her that. He settled back onto the ground and drew the blanket up around his shoulders like a second coat, staring at her through the fire. Her hair was twisted into a plait and draped across her shoulder, and she was focused on sharpening a dagger with a whetstone, using strong methodical movements. Noticing Steve was staring at her she glanced up at him, her face carefully blank of any emotion.

“But you're staying?” Steve tracked back to the questions she’d avoided answering earlier.

“With you and Sam? Yeah for now.”

“Why?”

She dragged the whetstone across the small blade for a moment or two, filling the silence between them with the sharp scratch. “You joust well, might even win a tournament or two. I like my chances with the two of you, and it’s clear you need all the help you can get,” she said eventually, twisting her mouth into a smile.

“What's in it for you?”

“An even share of the prize money. And an employer I don't think will try and grope me,” she added with a slight chuckle.

“You're not really my type.” Steve allowed, smiling back.

“For the record, I think Bucky's trustworthy enough, but Sam's right to be careful, not everyone's who they say they are.”

Steve scoffed and gestured to himself.

“Exactly,” she warned.

Steve dropped his gaze to the fire and mulled over both of their concerns. He took them seriously, of course, he did, but when he thought of Bucky, a strong emotion that Steve couldn’t name swelled in his chest and left little room for worry. Perhaps that in itself should have given him pause, but it was hard to feel anything other than hopeful.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The following day dawned bright and clear. The ache from Steve’s ribs and shoulders had mostly subsided, but it was still an effort to don Phillips clunky old armour. Sam helped him into it, buckling up the straps that Steve couldn’t reach and giving him a thwack on the opposite shoulder for good measure.

“Good to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Steve rolled his shoulders and stopped his feet. “Let’s go give Rumlow what-for.” He grinned.

Steve didn’t let himself search for Bucky as they led Devil from the stables towards the tournament grounds, he was already feeling too jittery and nervous and couldn’t decide if seeing Bucky’s charming smile would elevate or calm his racing heart.

It didn’t help that they crossed paths with Rumlow himself, sitting astride a coal-black destrier by the gates to the grounds, speaking up to a group of ladies leaning down the wooden scaffold that provided seating for the noble tourney patrons.

“Some of these poor country knights are little better than peasants.” Steve heard Rumlow scoff as he passed. The women giggled but Steve just ground his teeth to ignore Rumlow’s taunts. “How stylish of you to wear an antique. You'll start a new fashion if you win,” he called after Steve, which was accompanied by more infuriating giggles. “My grandfather will be able to wear his in public again. And a shield. How quaint.”

Steve clicked at Devil to walk faster and pressed on towards the other end of the list; it was going to be well and truly satisfying walloping Rumlow in the chest with a lance.

The man had even a target painted on the breastplate of armour in the form of a great white diagonal cross slashed against the dark metal. It matched the white cross beneath the eerie red skull and squid legs of Hydra, that made up his coat of arms fluttering from banners and flags held by the crowd.

Steve added proper livery and banners to the list of supplies they needed to buy before the next tournament—if their budget stretched that far, and if there _was_ another tournament; assuming they weren’t discovered, and Steve wasn’t seriously injured before then. Facing down Rumlow, who seemed to glower at him through the slit of his visor, and whose horse was foaming at the bit ready to charge towards Steve, that seemed like a very likely possibility.

The flag dropped and Rumlow charged. The crowd roared and Steve urged Devil into action. Steve kept his eyes on the target and his lance shattered against Rumlow’s breastplate at the same moment Rumlow’s lance broke in a glancing blow off Steve’s shield. The shield absorbed most of the impact, and Steve cantered back to Sam, bouncing lightly in the saddle, feeling largely unhurt—how ‘quaint’ indeed.

“One apiece, try and go for his helmet this time,” Sam suggested, hoisting another lance up to Steve.

“I’ll try.” Steve ground his teeth as he hefted the lance into position and spurred Devil back into motion as soon as the flag dropped for the second time. Steve steadied himself and aimed high. Helmets were designed to sweep back, most blows glanced off, but Steve braced his arm against his side and thrust directly at Rumlow’s visor. The tip of his lance snapped and Rumlow’s head was thrown back. He lost his balance and his blow went wide, missing Steve completely.

“YES!” Steve cheered from beneath his visor which muffled his excitement. Sam shared it anyway though, practically jumping up and down when Devil plodded to a halt in front of him.

“Three lances to one, he needs to unhorse you to win.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Steve promised. He took the fresh lance, feeling his heart cantering in his chest. Blood pounded in his ears and the cheers from the audience drowned each other out in a cacophony of noise, but Steve was pretty sure he heard some ‘Lord Ipheion!’s in there somewhere. “Ready?” He gave Devil a soothing rub on his withers and gathered up the reins again. Devil snickered, sounding as excited as Steve felt. “Hiyah!”

Steve pressed on down the lists, aiming for Rumlow’s chest again this time; there was no need to be intentionally cruel, the man already looked disoriented from the blow he’d taken to the head. Rumlow managed to break another lance on Steve’s shield, but Steve shattered his own right at the centre of the cross on Rumlow’s chest. The crowd went wild and Steve trotted around in a lap of victory, waving his broken lance for the crowd to see. And then, below the scaffolding for the nobles, in the area fenced off for knights and their squires to get a glimpse of their opponents, Steve spotted the blue eyes and soft brown waves he’d been secretly hoping to see. Bucky was cheering loudly, alongside Clint and—to Steve’s surprise—Natasha. Steve grinned back and raised his lance in a salute before Sam darted forward to grab Devil’s halter and rein him in.

Steve could feel Rumlow’s anger all the way from across the tournament ground, and when he glanced back, Steve saw Rumlow take that anger out of his squires.

“Yikes,” he commented to Sam, but Sam wasn’t paying attention.

“Come on, Sir Bigshot—you’re needed in the sword ring.”

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆


	5. The Winter Soldier

Competing in two events was definitely a mistake. Steve might have been better in the sword, winning both of his matches that day and progressing to the final round the following morning, but he was physically exhausted. He was battered and bruised, his limbs felt like lead, and he couldn’t even summon up the energy to tend to Devil or apply his salves that evening before he face-planted in the bed, quickly succumbing to the black void of sleep. He paid for it even more the next morning, though, with stiff aching limbs and deep bruises that hadn’t healed properly.

Steve winced when he fitted the heavy plate armour to his chest and Sam pulled it tight around his shoulders.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Sam asked.

“I can do this all day.” Steve quipped back the retort he’d always given when Phillips had questioned his ability to carry out the more arduous tasks that fell under his responsibility. Sam gave him a similar eyeroll to the one it had always earned from Phillips. Steve jostled the armour into a more comfortable position and grabbed his sword. It was the last day of the tournament, whatever happened, he could rest tomorrow before they started the long walk to the next town. “Next time I saw we skip the sword, though.”

“Even if you win? There’s good money in the sword.”

“Eh.” Steve gave a non-committal grunt; the prizes and prestige were bigger in the joust, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He plodded towards the Sword ring, ignoring all the aches and pains with a practised determination, as he geared himself up for the fight. This time he definitely heard shouts for Lord Ipheion from the crush of people crowding around to revel in the violent display, and it gave Steve the surge of energy he needed to beat his opponent back against the fence one, twice, three times—and eventually secure him the ten clean hits he needed for victory.

Steve couldn’t quite believe it. He took off his helmet and gaped at Sam as the crowd surged with a rousing chant and the herald threw Steve’s arm in the air to soak up the victory. He’d won. Actually won.

“YES!” Sam whooped and cheered as he jumped up and down in celebration. He vaulted over the fence and pulled Steve into a hug that crushed his armour against all of the bruises and sore spots underneath, but Steve really couldn’t care. They’d won. “I never actually thought we had a chance.” Sam laughed at Steve, turning the hug into a headlock and ruffling up his blonde hair. “By the stars, we did it!”

They didn’t have long to celebrate, though. As much as Steve wanted to sink into a vat of chamomile or at least warm water to soothe his joints, he was up in the joust; the final round of the tournament where a potentially even greater prize could be won.

Natasha reappeared as they were busying readying Devil’s saddle and reins. Once again, she refused to explain where she’d been, but this time Steve didn't have time to care; without her help, there was no way they were going to make it to the tourney grounds in time.

“What do we know about him?” Steve asked of his upcoming opponent as they hurried through re-fitting Steve’s armour which had come loose in the melee. There was an ominous-looking dent over his right side, which Steve didn’t think was going to stand up against many more direct blows. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to do anything about it now.

“Not a lot. I didn’t even get his name,” Sam admitted.

“They call him The Winter Soldier.” Natasha filled in for them.

Steve and Sam shared a look. “Why?”

“Because his mount is white as snow, he charges faster than a creeping frost, and his blow is deadlier than a Jotunheim winter.”

Steve swallowed.

“So, it’ll be a piece of cake, right?” Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder which, rather than being the bolstering boost Steve suspected it was meant to be, just sent Steve staggering forwards a few paces so he didn’t lose his balance.

“Yeah. No problem,” Steve replied in a small voice.

“Right, let’s go before you forfeit,” Natasha urged.

Steve let himself be helped up in the saddle, and they trotted back down the familiar muddy track to the gates of the lists, only this time it was lined with far more people. The final round of the joust was the last event in the tournament and it felt like every single person in town had come out to watch. The stands were crowded and the roar of anticipation was deafening. Steve recognised a few chants from earlier in the tournament, accompanied by the rhythmic foot-stomping and clapping that got the crowd riled up and excited. It worked on Steve too. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest with excitement, adrenaline, nerves, or maybe a combination of all three. Before he lowered his visor, Steve glanced around the stands trying to spot Bucky—but they were too crowded for him to make out any individual faces.

“Just . . . do what you’ve been doing.” Sam offered as the world’s most unhelpful advice, with a shrug. “But better.”

“Thanks.” Steve deadpanned.

“You know what you’re doing better than I do.” Sam lifted the lance to him and Steve balanced it in his grip, staring down his opponent at the other end of the field.

The Winter Soldier’s mount was white as snow alright. The horse’s glossy white coat was brushed clean and sleek under the black flanchard with a diagonal silver stripe and bold red star that matched the coat of arms fluttering from a banner held aloft by the Winter Soldier’s squire. The Knight himself was fitted out in jet black armour that glinted menacingly under the afternoon sun, his lance was also silver, wrapped with a criss-cross pattern in black and painted with a red star near the grip. He clearly meant business, then, if he went to the effort of branding his lances. Most knights used the standard sets provided by the tournament like Steve had; plain wood striped with frugal yellow and green paint to match the town colours. He shifted the lance in his grip and set his jaw in determination before he closed his visor over his eyes and tensed, ready for the flag to drop.

The Winter Soldier exploded into action, charging down the lists before Steve had even spurred Devil on. They collided in Steve’s half of the list before Devil had the chance to pick up a good pace, and the Winter Soldier’s lance found its mark dead center in Steve’s chest, beyond the reach of his shield. It shattered with an impact that had Steve struggling to breathe. His own blow went wide, and Devil trotted back to Sam on his own accord whilst Steve struggled to stay upright, gasping breath to refill his lungs.

“Holy shit,” was Sam’s only comment.

“Yeah,” Steve managed to grunt in reply. He took the second lance and readjusted his grip on Devil’s reigns, spurring forwards before the flag had fully dropped, determined to meet the Winter Soldier on an equal footing this time. His aim stayed true and he brought up his shield to protect his chest, shattering his lance on the Soldier’s breastplate as the Soldier broke his on Steve’s shield.

“Two lances to one, you’re not out of this yet!” Sam urged as Steve took the third and final lance and charged down the lists for their final pass. He aimed high, going for the Soldier’s visor, but it left his chest open and the Soldier managed to find the weak spot in Steve’s armour. The lance didn’t just break, it pierced Steve’s breastplate as it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

Steve cried out in anguish and dropped his lance. Thankfully his thighs clamped reflexively around Devil’s flanks and he stayed on his horse, but it was over. He’d lost.

“Shit, shit. Are you okay? Steve?”

Steve’s focus was narrowed to the pain radiating from a point just above his hip, but he heard Sam’s anxious voice and was grateful for the hands that helped him down from Devil; falling into Sam’s arms rather than making any sort of graceful dismount. There was a splinter about the size of Natasha’s wrist sticking out from Steve’s armour, he pulled it free without waiting to think better of it, and saw the blunted tip of the lance was mercifully still intact. Gingerly, he slipped shaking fingers beneath his armour, prodding against where the blow had been struck.

“Just bruised,” he relayed to Sam when his fingers came back free of blood. “Fuck, he’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Leaning on Sam more than Steve would care to admit, he glanced up at the Winter Soldier whose horse was hoofing at the ground at the other end of the list. It wasn’t possible to determine any expression through the thin slits of the knight’s visor, of course, and maybe Steve was a little delirious from the pain, but he thought something about the Soldier’s body language looked concerned.

Steve didn’t have time to dwell on it, the presentations were held immediately, as was the tournament custom—whilst the largest crowd was still in attendance—and Steve was shuffled forwards by Sam to collect his prize as Champion of the Sword. It was a beautifully wrought sword in miniature, solid silver, and worth a good few coins. But it was nothing to the golden horse statue presented to the Winter Soldier for winning the joust and being awarded the overall honour of Tournament Champion. The Soldier kept his helmet on and visor down as he received his prize; as seemed to be expected. He must have been of unquestionable noble birth for such a feat to be allowed to go unchallenged.

Steve tried to feel happy with his prize, weeks ago he would have scoffed at the notion of feeling unsatisfied with that much money in his grasp, but Steve couldn’t help but feel a bristle of bitter disappointment clouding his mind. He’d been so close. If only he hadn’t been wearing such old and worn out armour, the honour of Tournament Champion, and the prize and the prestige that came with it, could have been his. Surely that would have been enough to take home to his mother as proof of a better life.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

“You’re hurt!”

Steve glanced up from brushing Devil’s flank, trying not to wince too obviously as Bucky rushed towards him.

“Fine. Just bruised.” He promised. After stripping out of the armour and the padding he wore beneath it, Steve had applied a healthy amount of lotion to cover his bruises and strapped up his ribs in thick strips of cloth in case any of them had actually been broken during the joust. He was pretty sure he’d only been badly bruised, however much pain he was in.

“That last blow—pierced your amour,” Bucky fretted, pushing closer into the stall with his hands hovering in front of Steve like he was having to restrain himself from reaching out to check Steve’s bandages for himself.

“So, you were watching.” Steve summoned a smile. “I didn’t spot you.”

“Like I’d miss it.” Bucky twisted his mouth into a smile, but his eyes still looked concerned.

“My armour’s busted,” Steve admitted. “But luckily none of the splinters pierced me. It’s just a bruise, I promise.” On impulse, just because Bucky looked more scared than Steve felt he could handle, he guided Bucky’s hands to his stomach and let him feel around the bandage. “Just a bruise.”

“I bet it’s black and blue under there.”

“Like a storm cloud,” Steve agreed with a slight chuckle that jostled his ribs and made him wince.

“Yet you’re still in here doing the job of a squire.”

Steve could only huff. “We’re shorthanded,” he opted to say rather than trying for any more believable lies as to why a knight would tend his own horse. From what he’d seen, Bucky didn’t seem like the type who was trying to turn him in, and to be frank; Steve was in too much pain to care.

“Let me.” Bucky held out his hands for the brush and chivvied Steve out of the way so that he could take over the grooming.

Steve didn’t protest, all of that reaching and stretching probably wasn’t good for his ribs anyway— plus it was a joy to watch Bucky bond with Devil, scratching under his jaw and taking care to groom Devil’s glossy chestnut coat with strong careful strokes of the brush. The unfamiliar feeling swelled again in Steve’s chest at the sight.

“Are you planning to joust at Ridgewood?” Bucky asked when he moved on to combing through Devil’s hair in a manner that made Steve feel slightly jealous.

Steve huffed, “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I can fix my armour in time.”

“Surely it won’t take long to patch up?”

“Probably not. But truthfully, I could do with a whole new suit,” Steve said, perhaps more candidly than he should have been. “It was outdated when I started wearing it.”

Bucky gave a hum of amusement.

“What?”

“It is an antique.” Bucky laughed. “I didn’t want to say anything in case there was a reason for it.”

“No reason other than I’ve never bothered to update it,” Steve said honestly—well, that was Phillip’s excuse anyway. He’d been patching it up for years, choosing to fritter his money away on drink rather than making any lasting investments in his future.

“If you do make it to Ridgewood, I might know someone who can help. With your armour.”

“Thank you—but I, uh,”

“Won’t cost you a penny,” Bucky promised.

Steve’s eyes narrowed.

“Honestly, you’d be doing her a favour, she’s been looking for a guinea pig to try her style of armour for ages, no one’s been brave enough.”

“Why not?”

“It’s,” Bucky hesitated over his next words, leaving Steve wondering what the hell of armour you needed to be brave to try—was it infused with venom or something? “A new style. An improvement. Trust me—I’d wear it if I could.”

“Are you going to Ridgewood?”

“Yeah, planning to. I’ll make the introduction, you won’t regret it I promise.” Bucky smiled at Steve and any reservations he might have had melted. It would be worth making the trip to Ridgewood just to see more of Bucky’s smile.


	6. Armour

They split the prize money from the sword contest evenly between the three of them, before pooling a portion back to invest in what Sam termed ‘tournament expenses’. With careful budgeting, they could afford to spend some nights of their week-long ride to Ridgewood at inns. Even when they slept rough, they made sure they had warm bellies and thicker blankets, which meant that Steve felt far better rested by the time they arrived in Ridgewood for the tournament. He’d even managed to restock his small cache of herbs, thanks to Natasha’s excellent foraging skills, and the aches in his ribs and shoulder had pretty much subsided.

“Just in time to get beaten back to a pulp.” Sam laughed and clapped Steve on the shoulder.

But Steve’s good mood wasn’t to be deterred. They’d made good time on their journey and they had a whole day to explore the town before the tournament began. Even more exciting was the prospect of seeing Bucky again. Steve had kept an eye out for him the entire journey, and as soon as they’d staked out their position in the camping ground, Steve was bursting with a desire to go and find him. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long. No sooner had Steve settled Devil in the stables, then he heard a familiar voice humming a familiar tune under his breath. Steve left Devil with a whispered promise to return soon and crept along the stalls towards the sound of Bucky’s voice. He found Bucky in the last but one, tending to a beautiful white horse. Bucky was carefully brushing out the horse’s silvery mane and didn’t immediately spot Steve. When he did, his face broke into a wide smile, but he didn’t stop humming until he’d reached the end of the refrain.

“Ipheion.” Bucky ducked his head in the slight suggestion of a bow, but even that made Steve shake his head. He hated having to pretend with Bucky, hated the idea that Bucky thought he was someone else.

“I’ve told you, it’s Steve. Please.”

“I know. But it makes you blush so beautifully.” Bucky grinned back with what could only be described as a teasing smile, and Steve had the strangest desire to throw a handful of straw at him. He resisted, only just, and felt himself blush even more furiously. “There it is.” Bucky beamed. That time, Steve couldn’t resist. He grabbed a handful of hay from the bale hanging by the entrance of the stall and threw it overarm at Bucky. Of course, the bundle fell apart before it reached him, showering harmlessly around Bucky’s shoulders, succeeding only in making Bucky laugh at him. But what a beautiful sound that was. There was such a beautiful musical lilt to his laugh that Steve forgot to even pretend to be annoyed and found himself laughing right along. “Are you free this afternoon?”

“I can be,” Steve replied. There was a lot to sort out before the tournament began, but Steve could definitely make time for Bucky.

“Great. Meet me at the King’s Forge at 2 o’clock?”

“Um, sure . . ?” Steve’s imagination reeling with possibilities before Bucky quickly explained.

“For the armour.”

“Right, the armour. Of course.”

Bucky laughed at him again and pulled a sealed letter from inside his doublet. “Show this, in case you have any trouble.”

“Okay,” Steve managed to reply as Bucky pressed the letter into Steve's hands. “2 o’clock?”

“2 o’clock.” Bucky smiled before turning back the horse in a clear indication that he was busy. Steve would have loved to linger, but there was still a mountain of things Steve still had to do before the tournament began, which left little time for simply standing and watching Bucky—especially if Steve wanted to be free by the afternoon.

Steve finished placating Devil and made sure there was plenty of hay and clean water within his nose's reach before he slipped out of the stables to find Sam and help pitch their tent.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

“This could be a trap, you know.” Sam warned as they crossed through the hustle and bustle of the city looking for the ‘King’s Forge’. Steve assumed it would be on the street with the other Blacksmiths shops, if it wasn’t, then he had no idea where else to look.

Ridgewood was one of Ironvhan’s many royal residences, often used as their summer retreat, and as such the tournament drew a very different kind of crowd to the ones they normally mingled with. There was even a rumour that the King of Ironvhan himself would be in attendance to oversee the last day of the joust, which added an extra layer of nerves to their whole charade. Steve felt very conspicuous as they wove across the square through throngs of well-dressed visitors, ruffling a hand through his messy hair as they went.

“A trap?” The thought hadn't even crossed Steve's mind. “Why would Bucky need to set a trap? He's been alone with me plenty of times.”

Sam just snorted. “Well let's just hope it's not. Is that it, you think?” Sam pointed to a shop up ahead. The wrought iron sign swinging above the door stated it was the King’s Forge, but worryingly, it was guarded by two athletic black women clad in matching red leather armour. They were each armed with a dangerous-looking spear which they lowered to bar the doorway when Sam and Steve approached.

“Halt. Who goes there?” One of them demanded in an accent Steve recognised to be from Wakanda, the largely isolated country to the south. Wakanda kept out of most wars and their knights rarely travelled to the tournaments, but Steve had come across one or two in his years spent with Phillips. 

“Um, Lord Ipheion.” Steve stammered an introduction. “I was told to meet here?” Then he remembered the letter Bucky had given him and fished it quickly from inside his tunic. He held it out, seal up, for the guards to scrutinise. Whatever it was supposed to mean, it worked, because they waved him through.

Steve glanced back at Sam, who just shrugged, so he stepped through into the shop, wondering why on earth two Wakandan guards would be tasked with defending a blacksmith’s forge in Ridgewood. No one came to greet them when they entered, and as he peered around Steve couldn’t immediately spot anyone inside. Light fell in shafts through cleverly designed windows up by the eaves of the roof, and a warm orange glow spilled out from a forge at the far end of the room. Pillars and beams cut through the room at intervals and large contraptions that Steve couldn’t fathom the purpose of filled much of the floor space. After stopping to listen, Steve heard the clinking sound of metal against metal, but he couldn’t see anyone working.

“Hello?” Steve called out. The clinking stopped and Steve tensed, settling automatically into a fighting stance.

“You must be Lord Ipheion,” another Wakandan voice answered. It belonged to a young woman who stepped out from behind a giant wooden structure and grinned up at Steve. “And Samuel.” She nodded to Sam too. “Good to meet you. I'm told you're willing to try my armour?”

“Yes?” Steve hesitated.

“Don't look so nervous!” The young woman laughed at him. “This way.”

Steve was beyond confused. The woman was dressed like a blacksmith, wearing a sturdy apron to protect her clothes, but her intricate hairstyle and the jewellery at her ears and throat belied a nobility that might explain the guards at the doorway. Steve had a sneaking suspicion about who he was talking to, a suspicion which was confirmed when Bucky breezed into the workshop moments later.

“Shuri!” He greeted the young woman with a grin.

“Shuri?” Sam hissed under his breath at Steve. “As in . . ?”

 _The Princess of Wakanda_. “Your Royal Highness.” Steve stammered and started to dip into a bow, but Shuri dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she told him. “Come on, let me show you what I’ve made for you. Bucky was very insistent that you only get the very best.”

Steve glanced back at Bucky in confusion, but Bucky was suddenly very interested in the wooden contraption next to him and wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

“Here.” Shuri led them to a table with shiny silver armour set out in pieces. Even in the low light, it glinted and shone. Steve ran his fingers lightly over the surface in wonder. It was beautifully wrought, far better than the clunky armour he was currently wearing.

“It's beautiful . . .” Steve picked the breastplate, and almost threw it clean across the room as it lifted with far less effort than he'd been expecting. It weighed next to nothing. “It's . . . light,” he said, glancing up at Shuri and wondering if this was all a trick. How could armour that light possibly provide any protection?

“It’s far too light.” Sam agreed as he turned the greaves over in his hands. “He’ll be crushed. Killed.”

“No.” Shuri laughed. “I found a new way to heat steel. It's thinner, smaller, but just as strong.” She assured them.

Steve didn’t see how that was possible, but then he wasn’t a blacksmith. “Can I try it on?”

“Of course.” She grinned.

Sam helped Steve shuffle into it, but he needn’t have bothered, the armour was so light and flexible that Steve could pretty much strap it all up himself. It felt far less constricting than what he was used to and didn’t weigh down on his shoulders or press up against his ribs with anything like the usual amount of pain he’d come to expect.

“Twist and bend. Feel the movement.” She encouraged.

Steve did so, finding a much greater range of movement than Phillip’s armour offered.

“It looks good,” Bucky commented. He’d kept his distance whilst Steve had armoured himself, but he stepped forwards now and ran his fingers lightly across the gleaming vambrace that covered Steve’s arm. Steve could hardly breathe, but for once it had nothing to do with the armour that sat almost imperceptibly on his chest. Bucky looked transfixed as he ran his fingertips up to the pauldrons that covered Steve’s shoulders, and then lightly across the breastplate. Steve’s heart was currently doing somersaults beneath his ribcage and he was pretty sure Bucky would be able to detect his frantic heartbeats even through his armour. He tore his eyes from Bucky and swallowed, focusing instead on Shuri.

“It’s great,” he told her. Miraculous even, but, “but eventually I will be struck.” He protested. “And then—”

“Death.” Sam helpfully chipped in. Steve couldn’t disagree.

“Do you at least have the courage to test it?” Shuri sighed, sounding exasperated, and Steve remembered what Bucky had said about no one being willing to act as her guinea pig.

“I guess so?”

They rigged up a wooden beam strung from the ceiling to swing at him in an intimation of a jousting lance. Steve suspected it would have the same kind of impact, and if the armour failed it was going to hurt like hell. Sam looked dubious as they rigged it up and Steve tried to quell his nerves. He’d only end up with some busted ribs, he tried to reason with himself, which would heal—in time. Better to test it now at least than in the middle of the tournament in front of a crowd.

“Ready?” Shuri asked.

Steve jumped up on down on the spot to get his blood pumping and then tensed in front of the heap of straw they’d piled behind him as a crashmat. “Yes.”

“For the record, I think this is a stupid idea,” Sam spoke up.

“Nah, he’ll be fine.” Bucky grinned and cut the rope holding the beam poised to strike.

The beam swung forward in a great arc, picking up speed, and collided in the center of Steve’s chest with an almighty wallop. The blow was enough to push Steve back off his feet and send him flying into the straw.

“Steve!”

“Are you okay?”

Sam and Bucky were on him in an instant. Sam looked terrified, and for all of his confidence, concern had flooded Bucky’s expression too.

Steve blinked up at them in turn, mentally cataloguing his injuries, except . . . there were none.

“I didn’t feel a thing!” he shouted with jubilation, laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.

“Told you.” Shuri grinned.

Sam thrust out a hand to help haul Steve to his feet, which would normally have been a herculean effort in his old plate armour; now—with just a little help from Sam—Steve sprang up, energised from the adrenaline, feeling like he could take on the whole world.

“Thank you.” He twisted around, his movements still free and easy, the blow hadn’t appeared to have even dented the armour. “How can I ever repay you?”

Shuri waved him off again. “It’s already taken care of. Just make sure they know it’s Wakandan armour if anyone asks you, okay?”

“Of course, of course.”

“And Bucky told me you would want a shield? I told him he was crazy, because no one bothers with them anymore but, here.” She fished a shield out from under the table, not wooden like most knights carried nowadays, but made of the same sheet metal as the armour. Steve turned it over in his hands and rang his fingers lightly across the top. It was light and stronger than it looked, and it had been painted with a brilliant replica of the design he’d taken for his coat of arms: vertical stripes of red and white in the bottom half, beneath a white star flanked by the flowers he’d taken for his name against a field of blue.

Steve didn’t even know what to say. He gripped it reverently, feeling tears well up in his eyes. He wasn’t worthy of this, none of this. He knew full well they were only helping him because they thought he was a true knight, and suddenly the weight of the lie felt heavy on his shoulders. How would Shuri feel, a _princess_ no less, if she knew she was really helping a poor commoner. “I—” he stammered, lost for words.

“Told you.” Bucky ribbed Shuri lightly with his elbow.

Steve glanced up at found Bucky smiling. Steve forced himself to choke back whatever thoughts of honesty flashed through his mind and hefted the shield onto his forearm, enjoying the way it felt in his grip.

“Thank you.” Steve eventually managed to compose himself enough to say. If Shuri wanted to help a knight, then why shouldn’t she want to help him—what was there really about the station of his birth that made him any different?

“Isn’t this where you promise to win the tournament for me?” She grinned at him.

“Yes, of course,” Steve rushed to promise. “I will wear this armour with pride, and promise to win this tournament for you.”

Shuri snorted. “I couldn’t care less about the tournament.” She laughed. “Boys with sticks. It’s all so pointless.”

“ _Lances_.” Bucky corrected her with a slight smile.

“Oh, my apologies.” She laughed back. “Boys with their _lances_.”

“Then why are you here?” Sam spoke up, taking the ‘not standing on ceremony’ to heart much better than Steve ever could.

“My brother.” She gesticulated in a way that indicated annoyance. “He didn’t want to come so he sent me instead. It was my condition that he find a workshop for me or _something_ , Bast knows I hate sitting around making idle chat with courtiers all day. Thankfully the King obliged.” Shuri explained. “I think this used to be his workshop when he spent his summers here as a child.”

Steve glanced around the workshop, and nodded along, wondering when this had become his life; being gifted bespoke armour from a princess, forged in a king’s workshop, and—for that matter—how Bucky knew Shuri so well. He peered curiously at Bucky, who just smiled equally curiously back.

“Have you met the King?” Shuri asked brightly.

Steve cleared his throat. “Erm. No, I haven’t had that pleasure yet.”

“Lucky.” Bucky laughed before a glare from Shuri made him clamp his mouth shut. “You will though, if you win this tournament. _When_ —with that armour.” Bucky laughed.

Steve shook his head. “I can only hope.” He glanced back up at Bucky who had fallen to bickering with Shuri about something, which Sam took as their cue to leave, practically dragging Steve away.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Steve’s first-round match was against a tall Asgardian warrior, Sir Fandral, who wore a very intricate looking suit of armour, gilded with golden accents and flashes of teal coloured leather. It took the help of two attendants to climb up onto his mountainous northern horse, and Steve could almost hear the way Fandral’s heavy armour clinked and jangled from the other end of the list as he walked Devil into the area. His entrance was greeted with hushed murmurings and giggles that were probably directed towards his thin-looking armour. Steve ignored them all, adjusting the strap on his shield before leaping astride Devil in one smooth movement. _That_ shut them up at least.

Grinning with smug satisfaction, Steve scanned the crowd of spectators and saw Shuri seated in the royal box, she gave him a rather unroyal-like wave which Steve answered with a salute of his lance. He didn’t spot Bucky, but Natasha and Clint were pressed against the railing hollering and cheering along with the rest of the crowd. He gave them a grin before lowering his visor. Then the flag dropped and he charged.

He rode like the wind, feeling lighter than ever as he bounced with Devil’s galloping strides. He lifted his lance and aimed for Fandral’s chest, smashing his lance as Fandral’s glanced harmlessly (more importantly, _unbroken_ ) off the smooth surface of Steve’s shield.

The remaining two passes were won in a similar fashion, and Steve cantered back down the list barely tired from the joust.

“Well met!” Fandral called to him as they passed, apparently unbothered at being ousted from the competition so soon. “Good luck with the rest of the tournament!”

“Thank you!” Steve called back giving him a salute that Fandral returned.

Sam was grinning from ear to ear when Steve reined Devil to a halt and dismounted with another easy jump. “If you make as light work of the rest of the field—we’ll win this tournament in no time!” He grinned.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Steve tried to curb Sam’s enthusiasm. He still had Rumlow to contend with, not to mention the Winter Soldier.

But without the Sword contest to distract him, Steve was far better rested, and without Phillips ill-fitting armour probably causing more damage than it ever protected him from, Steve was in much better shape going into each round. He even had free time to watch some of the other contests, laughing from the sidelines with Sam and Nat, and sometimes with Clint and Bucky too.

They were still low on funds, but they had some coins to spend on some of Ridgewood’s delicacies, treating themselves to tansy cakes with peppermint cream as they sat in the stands watching the Winter Soldier gearing up for a fight against Ridgewood’s homegrown favourite, Sir James Rhodes.

Bucky and Clint were conspicuously absent, which Steve put down to them nursing off the hangover they’d surely earned the night before; when the five of them had done a pretty good job of drinking each other into a stupor. Steve’s head still felt a little clouded, and he’d given up drinking long before Bucky had, falling asleep on Bucky’s shoulder as they sat sharing drinking songs around their cooking fire. Steve wrapped up the last tansy cake and pocketed it, aiming to cheer Bucky up with it later for having missed the joust.

A cheer rippled through the arena and Steve watched as the knights entered. The Winter Soldier escorted his snowy white steed, looking as little jelly-legged himself as he hopped up into the saddle.

“Someone was on the sauce last night,” Sam scoffed under his breath.

“Maybe it’s nerves,” Steve offered in reply. At the other end of the list, Rhodes looked imposing in bulky, thunder grey armour. He had the crowd on his side too, chanting and singing, and making it clear who their favourite was. Steve was due to face the winner of this match and he honestly wasn’t sure who he’d prefer to face. The Winter Soldier was formidable, Steve knew that from experience, but the sway of the crowd was something you couldn’t overlook. Scores of people all cheering for you to lose wasn’t something you could easily overcome—Steve had watched Phillips succumb to crowd favourites because of that many, many times before.

Despite how shaky he’d appeared to be at the start, the Winter Soldier put up a strong fight, breaking a lance on Rhodes’ pauldron as Rhodes smashed his own against the Soldier’s breastplate. The second pass fared similarly, leaving them two-a-piece, and forcing them both to aim for each other’s helmets in the third and final charge. Rhodes struck the Soldier right over the visor whilst the Soldier’s blow went low, breaking on the high collar of Rhodes’ armour in what looked like a staggeringly painful blow for Rhodes, but leaving the Soldier trailing three points to four.

The crowd went wild and the Soldier slipped out of the tournament grounds before the final score had even been announced. Steve could almost feel the disappointment radiating in the Soldier’s wake, and even though they were meant to be opponents, Steve’s heart went out to him. It was never fun to lose, especially not in a match that had been so closely fought.

Rumlow was next to joust and Steve stayed to watch, scrutinising every move Rumlow made, noticing the weaknesses in his technique that he could hopefully exploit next time they faced each other—which wouldn’t come until the final, with the way their matches had been drawn. Rumlow seemed to be filled with a newly determined zeal and his blows looked more ferocious than ever. Steve winced as Rumlow’s opponent was sent toppling back from his horse and crashed painfully into the mud on the second pass, sending Rumlow straight through to the next round. As he cantered around the lists in a victory lap, Rumlow raised his visor and sneered at Steve when he passed.

“Oh, he’s got a grudge against you.” Sam laughed under his breath.

Steve suspected he might have found it more intimidating if he hadn’t already beaten Rumlow both times they’d clashed swords or lances.

Steve left the others watching the final matches of the day and slipped back to the camping fields intending to check on Bucky. He made a stop at his own tent first and was surprised to find Bucky stretched out on the back of their wagon, squinting against the sunlight.

“Hi. I was just coming to look for you.” Steve greeted him with a warm smile.

“Really?” Bucky sat up carefully, winching, and squinting with the obvious signs of a headache.

“I saved you a tansy cake.” Steve pulled the last carefully wrapped treat from his pocket and held it up to Bucky who took it with a slightly perplexed look. “And I was going to offer you some willow bark for your head.”

“My head?” Bucky sounded shocked, even though it was obvious to the entire world that he was nursing a painful headache.

“Well, I’d be hungover if I drank half as much as you did yesterday.” Steve laughed gently, hoping he wasn’t offending Bucky’s dignity.

“Right. Yes. Hungover.” Bucky agreed.

“Would you like it as a tea, or do you prefer to chew it?”

“Erm, tea, I think,” Bucky spoke into the little parcel of food rather than meeting Steve’s eyes.

“We missed you at the joust today,” Steve said, as he set about lighting the fire to make tea. Bucky made an odd smile at that, still not meeting Steve’s eyes.

“What happened?” he asked eventually as he finally unwrapped the cake, breaking off small pieces to nibble at whilst scooping up finger-fulls of the peppermint cream inside. Steve got the fire going and set some water on to boil before giving him the rundown.

“Rumlow’s through to the next round easily, and the Winter Soldier went out in a surprise early defeat. He put up a good fight though, charging strongly against the home favourite. He was fearless until the last and took a nasty blow to the head. I doubt it’s the last we’ve seen of him though, and it might be odd to admit . . . but I’m disappointed I won’t be facing him this tournament.” Steve laughed at himself. Bucky made no reply, so Steve glanced up, only to find Bucky giving him a strange smile.

“Fearless until the last, eh?” Bucky smirked. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

“What? No,” Steve spluttered, feeling his cheeks burn. “Just professionally . . . impressed,” he answered quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Sure.” Bucky continued to smile around a finger full of peppermint cream.

Steve dropped his gaze back to the pot of water hanging over the fire and focused on stoking the blaze beneath it. Steve did _not_ have a crush on the Winter Soldier, though it was getting harder to deny his growing feelings for Bucky. Steve stirred the water and, when it began to boil, crushed up some willow bark to add to the mix, letting it steep and brew before he poured out a mug for Bucky.

“Here you go.” Steve handed the steaming mug up to him. The relief on Bucky’s face was almost palpable from the first sip.

“Thank you.” He sighed and leant back against the bundle of his cloak that he’d propped behind him against the side of the cart. “How do you know so much about herbs and medicine?”

Steve shrugged. “It’s useful to know.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Bucky took another sip and the pained expression on his face lessened another degree.

“I was sickly, as a child,” Steve admitted. He’d settled back on the ground by the fire and started to pluck at the grass by his side, running the blades between his fingers and knotting the longer ones until they snapped. “Knowing which herbs could soothe my lungs, or my joints, wasn’t just useful—it was necessary.”

Bucky hummed around his cup, then gave a soft laugh. “And now you willingly endanger yourself for sport.”

Steve dipped his head and raised his eyebrows in concession. “Yeah.” He laughed. He wondered what his mother might have to say if she saw him riding straight towards a lance; nothing good he imagined.

“At least you have proper armour to protect you now,” Bucky added in a quiet tone.

There it was again, the hint that Steve wasn’t doing anyone a favour by accepting the armour, that in fact, it was quite the other way around.

“How do you know the princess?” Steve asked, plucking at a particularly dense clump of grass.

“Shuri?”

Steve nodded.

Bucky took another sip before answering. “It was part of my training. I spent a summer in Wakanda.” It almost sounded plausible.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My father thought it was important.” Bucky sipped some more tea and swilled it around his cup. “I’m good with animals, I ended up tending the royal horses—and some of their goats too,” he added with a smile. Something didn’t quite add up, but it wasn’t a thread Steve particularly wanted to pull on. Besides, who was Steve to judge if Bucky was keeping secrets? It wasn’t like Steve was being entirely honest. Bucky thought Steve was a _Lord_ , and whilst that hadn’t mattered, to begin with, now that they were growing closer, now that Steve was undeniably falling for Bucky with each passing moment, it was only going to be harder to eventually come clean with the truth.

“I hear they have armoured rhinoceroses,” Steve chose to comment instead. “Are they as ferocious as they sound?”

“More so. But only if you get on the wrong side of them.” Bucky grinned.

Steve smiled back and settled on his forearms, staring up at the sky and trying to enjoy Bucky’s company without worrying about the lies between them. Sam and Natasha’s warnings still circled the back of Steve’s mind, like birds of prey watching everything with a careful eye, preventing him from truly relaxing. But Steve _was_ being careful, he hadn’t given too much of himself away. No matter how much he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Tansy cakes are actually weird pancake things, and tansy is actually poisionous in strong doses, but they're mentioned in the film and I wanted to include them. Just pretend in this universe they're a) not poisonous, b) more like donoughts or profiteroles.


	7. Tournament Champion

Steve had been worried about the home crowd advantage as he prepared for his match against Rhodes, but even despite that, Steve breezed through joust, and by the time he saddled up ready to face Rumlow in the final round, the crowd was well and truly on Steve’s side. As promised, the King of Ironvhan had come in person to oversee the final day of the tournament, and Steve was forced to parade in front of the royal box to be officially presented to him.

“Sir Steven Ipheion, Lord of Mar-Vell,” the herald announced. Steve reined Devil to halt in front of the royal box and dipped his head in as much of a demure bow as he could manage from horseback.

“I’m told you’re the man to beat,” the King addressed him. Steve glanced up, surprised to find himself faced with a man only a few years older than himself, dressed in swathes of red velvet and gold silk, with a stylishly trimmed goatee. “You certainly embarrassed Rhodes in the lists.”

“Your Majesty . . .” Steve said nervously, not sure what else to say. He’d heard the rumours Rhodes was good friends with the King but had thought little of it at the time.

“Interesting armour,” the King continued.

“It’s Wakandan—” Steve started to reply, glancing across at Shuri who was seated a few seats down from the King and had been fighting back her laughter from the moment Steve had been announced.

“I’m aware.” The King twisted his mouth into something that might generously be called a smile.

“Tony,” a beautiful strawberry blonde woman seated next to the king said in a warning tone and gently squeezed the King’s arm.

The King’s smile turned into something more polite, but obviously false, and he dismissed Steve with a civil, “Good luck today.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Steve dipped his head again and spurred Devil into a trot, letting out a deep exhale when he was out of earshot. He wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to cope with a whole evening of mixing with royals and nobles if he actually ended up winning the tournament. But—as his ma would say—there was no use borrowing trouble; he could worry about that _if_ he won.

Steve watched Rumlow parade in front of the royal box and then take up his position against him at the head of the field. He stared Steve down, foaming at the bit as much as his horse was before he slammed his visor shut and began to charge the moment the flag dropped. His aim was high, as always, so Steve aimed low, rolling his shoulder back to dodge the blow of Rumlow’s lance and letting his own smash against Rumlow’s shoulder.

“One lance to Ipheion!” the herald shouted and the crowd cheered for Steve. Steve soaked up the encouragement and used it to spur him on in the second pass, smashing his lance against Rumlow’s chest as Rumlow’s broke on Steve’s shield.

Steve could tell in the third pass that Rumlow was out for blood, charging like the devil down the lists. But he still wasn’t a match for Steve’s Devil. Steve braced himself for the blow and weathered it solidly against his chest as his own lance broke on Rumlow’s arm.

It took a moment or two for Steve to realise that meant he’d won the match. More than that, he’d won the _tournament_.

The crowd erupted into a tumultuous cheer and even the nobles gave a smattering of polite applause. Steve could see Sam and Nat jumping around with ecstatic excitement when he lined up for the presentation ceremony in a daze, and he didn’t miss the way the crowd roared when the herald announced, “The winner of the mounted joust and tournament champion, Lord Ipheion!”

It raised goosebumps on his arms and Steve knew he must have been grinning like a dolt when he accepted the prize from the King—but Steve found it difficult to care. He held the prize aloft, scanning the sea of smiling faces for one smile in particular, and tried desperately not to feel disappointed when he failed to spot Bucky in amongst the crowd.

“You're the champion!” Sam pulled Steve into a hug when they could finally re-group in peace in the stables.

“I can’t believe we did it.” Steve gripped him back just as tight before they both broke off to stare down at the golden trophy.

“How much do you think it’s worth?”

“A least a few hot meals and a passage home.” Steve grinned back.

“Home?” Sam sounded confused which pulled Steve up short.

“Wasn’t that the plan?” Tournament Champion would be a fine story to tell his mother.

“Yes, but.” Sam scratched the back of his head and shrugged. “Why stop now? It’s working better than we’d hoped.”

“So, what you’re saying is . . .” Steve waited for Sam to elaborate, wanting to hear it in Sam’s own words.

“There are a few tournaments left in the calendar, let’s see how we do? That right there will get us home, but,”

“A few more tournament wins will get us home in style?” Steve laughed.

“Exactly.”

Steve pulled Sam back in for another hug. “I’m game if you are.” He laughed. “We do have a problem though.”

“What?”

“The banquet tonight. What the hell am I going to wear?”

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Fortunately, Natasha had the forethought to plan that far ahead and produced a navy-blue tunic embroidered with silver piping for him to wear. Steve didn’t ask where she got it from, he thought it probably best not to ask. But whilst the tunic made him _look_ the part, Steve had still never attended a banquet in his life, let alone a royal one.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice cut through the stables and Steve shrank back further into the dark corner he was sulking in. He’d been trying to quieten his nerves by sketching, but so far, he’d broken both quills he’d tried to use which only put him in more of a foul mood. He was re-cutting the nib, taking care not to cut himself in the process, but he was still vibrating with nerves and wasn’t managing to do a very neat job of it. “Where are you?”

“Over here,” Steve called back with a heavy sigh, letting his hands drop into his lap and staring dolefully up at Bucky who laughed when he found him.

“And what’s up with you?”

“I don’t know how to dance,” he admitted. It was Natasha who’d pointed out he would be expected to. It was traditional for the tournament champion to open up the dance floor, apparently. At which point Steve had promptly fled.

“Oh, Steve.” Bucky laughed again. “What sorry kind of knight are you?”

“Clearly a terrible one,” he replied with a miserable air.

“Well, we can’t have the tournament champion moping in here all night. C’mon, I’ll teach you.”

“You can dance?”

“Of course, I can.”

Steve peered up at Bucky, backlight by the glow of twilight that slanted through the stable door. Of course, Bucky would know how to dance. He was full of surprises.

“C’mon, I’ll teach you,” Bucky repeated with a grin, holding his hand out to Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes, not sure he wanted to learn, or if wanted to sulk in the stables forever, mired in a sea of petulant grumpiness.

“Come on.” Bucky grabbed for Steve’s hand this time and hauled him to his feet. “It’s not hard. Watch.”

Bucky walked Steve through the core elements of the common dances, teaching him to count the beat of the music which he hummed under his breath.

“Keep your hand light, like a bird on a branch. There.” Bucky corrected and beamed at Steve when adjusted the lay of his hand in Bucky’s grip. “And one and two, twirly, twirly,” Bucky instructed, twirling around Steve in their imaginary group of four, until they stepped close together on the beat, and back again to twirl away in the other direction.

**Image** : Bucky & Steve dancing in the stables | **art by** : histoires_eternelles

The dances all seemed designed to tease, letting the partners join hands and press close for just a moment before forcing them to fall back and cross over, stepping up to a different partner; twisting and moving around circles in a big group or a small set of four, in a constant series of close encounters, perhaps promenading together for a few steps with their arms entwined before the music called for them to break apart again. It was all one big taunt, and Steve kept getting the steps wrong, getting lost in Bucky’s orbit, wanting to stay close to him, with their hands clasped up between them.

“And then _back_ two, three, four.” Bucky laughed, giving Steve a little shove to chivvy him in the right direction.

“Sorry.” Steve let out a breathless apology, going where Bucky moved him, but unable to take his eyes off Bucky who looked absolutely stunning in the fading daylight and half gloom of the stables. “Come with me,” he offered then, in a rush.

“What?”

“Tonight, to the banquet. You can be my guest.”

“I can’t,” Bucky shook his head, still moving around their imaginary dance partners, bending into a slight bow as he met the ‘new’ partner in the circle. It took him a few beats to notice Steve had stopped dancing.

“Why not? I might be able to dance if you’re there. You . . . you give me confidence,” Steve admitted.

“You’ll do fine on your own—if you concentrate.” Bucky insisted. “Come on, this is a coranto—”

“Why won’t you come with me?”

“Because,” Bucky huffed. “It’s not my place.” His shoulders slumped and he turned away from Steve slightly, making Steve feel awfully guilty.

“Sorry.”

“It’s hardly _your_ fault.” Bucky glanced back. He pushed his mouth into a small crooked smile, but there was something sad about it. Some dismay at their difference in stations, no doubt. It made Steve’s stomach roil at his dishonesty. He wanted to come clean and admit to Bucky that there was no difference between them, admit that he was only playing a part of a Lord, that if anything he was even lower than Bucky, and that if Bucky wanted to attend the banquet there should be nothing stopping him.

“No, but it’s ridiculous,” Steve huffed back.

“What is?”

“The difference between nobles and common folk. No one is better than anyone else just because of who they were born to.” Steve stared at Bucky, the admission was right on the tip of his tongue, he hated having to lie to anyone, but it was a different kind of torture lying to Bucky.

“Careful, that sounds revolutionary,” Bucky chided with another slight smile.

“Well, it shouldn’t be. Honour should be _earned_ , not—” Steve was cut off mid-sentence when Bucky leaned in to kiss him.

Steve was shocked for a half a moment, and his brain stuttered to a halt as Bucky’s lips carefully slotted against his own. For half a moment he simply stood there as Bucky kissed him. It wasn’t until Bucky hesitantly began to pull back that Steve’s brain caught up with the programme, and he brought a hand up to catch Bucky’s sleeve and hold him close, parting his lips slightly and kissing back. After that, all thoughts when out the window. Steve crowded close, his hands bunched in Bucky’s tunic as Bucky’s hands slotted themselves around Steve’s waist, holding them flush together like Steve had been desperate to do all the while they’d been dancing. His heart was racing like it did after a joust when he finally broke away, still gripping tight to Bucky’s sleeve and staring deep into Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky stared back, looking a little nervous, but when Steve smiled, Bucky’s face split into a grin and he dived back in for a second kiss, this time tangling his hands in Steve’s hair and holding his head close to as he swept his tongue into Steve’s mouth; drinking him in like he was fresh rain after a drought.

“Ahem,” Sam cleared his throat from the stable door and cast the pair of them in shadow as he blocked the last of the light.

They broke apart, flushing with guilt at having been caught. Steve hastily wiped the back of his hand against his mouth, but he could do little about the rest of his dishevelled appearance.

“C’mon, _Lord Ipheion_ , or you’ll be late for your own banquet,” Sam tutted before stalking out.

The moment Sam had gone, Bucky burst out into an infectious laugh that soon had Steve giggling right alongside him.

“I should go . . .” Steve gasped for breath and turned back to Bucky, hesitating—he’d much rather spend the evening with Bucky, but he didn’t want to risk offending anyone by missing the banquet.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “You should.”

They held eyes for a second before Steve ducked in to kiss him again. Bucky reciprocated to start with until he remembered Steve was meant to be leaving, and he pushed Steve back with a laugh. Steve stepped back at that time and straightened his tunic.

“Wait, I wrecked your hair,” Bucky said with an implied ‘oops’. He stepped up to Steve again and dragged his hands through Steve’s blonde locks, trying valiantly to make them lie flat. Steve couldn’t help but press a kiss to the end of Bucky’s nose, grinning like a lovesick fool. Bucky’s mouth curled into a smile but otherwise, he ignored Steve, giving his hair one last pat before turning him by the shoulders and pushing him towards the door. “Now, shoo. And good luck!”

 _Luck_ , Steve huffed to himself, he already felt like the luckiest man in the world.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The banqueting hall was easily the biggest and grandest room Steve had ever seen in his life. He suspected you could fit the whole church his ma had dragged him too as a kid inside the hall, spire and all, and still have space to spare. The rafters were gilded with gold and beautiful decorative tapestries covered the thick stone walls. Steve stopped in the doorway and tried to school his expression into a casual nonchalance, Lord Ipheion would have seen hundreds of rooms like this, obviously; he probably had gold ceilings and intricate tapestries at home himself. The last thing he needed to was to give himself away by gawping at the furnishings.

The room was full of smartly dressed people in fabrics and colours that Steve had only dreamt of, with headdresses and fashions he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He glanced around for a friendly face, but Shuri was engaged in conversation with other courtly ladies across the room, and as familiar as she’d been in the workshop, Steve doubted it would be appropriate for him to go and interrupt the _Princess of Wakanda_.

Instead, he made his way casually over to the banquet table where a buffet spread of fine food was arrayed. He had to force himself not to grab handfuls of it and run. You could feed an entire village off that spread for _weeks_ , and most of the nobles were ignoring it. It made something inside Steve seethe a little. Not to mention that half of it looked too artistic and intricately made to eat. Someone—rather a great many someones—had been busy preparing this feast for days and most of it was going to end up going to waste.

Steve stared at some parcels of flaky filo pastry, trying to figure out what on earth they contained, and how you were meant to eat them without crumbling pastry all down your front when someone clapped him on the back. It probably looked like a friendly gesture, but the grip was far too tight around the base of his neck to be anything other than menacing.

“ _Ipheion_ , is it?” Rumlow growled in Steve’s ear, tightening his grip and forcing Steve’s head down a degree. “Not so tough without your fancy new armour, are you?” he hissed, which made no sense considering Steve had beaten him twice without it, Steve decided it was probably best not to argue, though; Rumlow didn’t look like he regularly employed logic of any kind. “You’ll rue the day you ever decided to cross me.” He gave Steve another shove before Steve could twist away out of his grip. “Next time you look up at me, it will be from the flat of your back.” Rumlow threatened before stalking off with a sour expression.

Steve watched him go, bewildered, and somewhat amused by the whole encounter. He turned instinctively to laugh with Sam, who of course wasn’t standing beside him and ended up catching the gaze of the blonde Asgardian he’d knocked out in the first round.

“Sir Steven!” Fandral waved him over.

Steve glanced behind him, wondering foolishly that there might be another Sir Steven standing behind him, which only made Fandral beckon more insistently. Without any other options, Steve headed over, hoping he wasn’t walking into another repeat of his conversation with Rumlow.

“Sir Fandral.” Steve summoned what he hoped looked like a cordial smile as he approached.

“Tournament champion! Congratulations.” Fandral greeted him with a rough shake of Steve’s shoulder. “If it couldn’t be me, then I’m glad it was you—and at least now I can say I was bested by the champion.” He smiled jovially. Steve managed to smile back, just glad that Fandral wasn’t angry at him. “You should come to Asgard, we’ll show you a _real_ tournament,” Fandral added and looped his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Have you met Hogun, Volstagg, and Sif, yet?”

“No?”

“In Asgard, we don’t limit the field to just men—Sif’s one of the best contestants in the sword ring that I’ve ever seen and—if you do visit—I’d like to see you try and best _Valkyrie_ in the joust.” Fanrdal laughed as he steered Steve across the room. “She’s unbeatable!”

Steve let himself be guided around by the Asgardians and introduced to nobles whose names left his mind as soon as he was told them. He managed to laugh and smile in the right places and didn’t think he made too much of a fool of himself. It was all going swimmingly until it came time for him to open up the dance floor.

“So, Lord Ipheion.” The King crossed the room and clapped Steve on the shoulder. During the course of the evening, he’d learned that King preferred to be called Tony, that he had something of a reputation for being a playboy, and that he’d probably been secretly supplying Hydra with weapons for years, which is what kept them from the war (although there was scepticism from Fandral that Tony actually knew about that last part). Needless to say, Steve had formed a cool opinion of the monarch and was not best pleased to have been pulled into a one-armed hug and shown a rather patronising, shark-like smile from him. “What’ll you have, a coranto? Or a basse dance?”

It was then that Steve remembered what Bucky’s dance lessons had been for, and his mind went white with panic for a moment. The room fell silent, with the musicians waiting for Steve’s cue with bated breath.

“Um,” Steve glanced around, the entire room was waiting for him to respond and everything Bucky had tried to tell him about dancing fled his mind.

“Why don't you show us a dance of your country!” Rumlow jeered from across the room.

“Yes, Mar-Vell, wasn’t it? Show us a dance from Mar-Vell.” The King stepped back to let Steve demonstrate. It felt cruel, but Steve supposed that Tony was trying to be considerate.

“Ugh.” Steve plucked at the collar of his tunic, feeling himself begin to sweat. His heart rate picked up and his palms tingled, he’d much rather face an oncoming lance without a horse, without his armour, than demonstrate a non-existent dance with his clumsy two left feet. “Well, it's a lot like the farandole, but with some differences,” he started, thinking back to the only dance he vaguely remembered from Bucky’s hurried lesson.

That seemed to be the cue the musicians needed to start up a tune that filled the banqueting hall with an upbeat melody driven by a chorus of woodwind instruments. Steve was still stumped, was he meant to demonstrate the dance by _himself_? Mercifully, the strawberry blonde woman who’d saved him at the joust earlier, once again swept in to save him, taking his hand and stepping towards the centre of the dance floor.

“Well, you bow,” Steve explained, hoping his voice didn’t belie his nerves as he dipped into a bow, which the woman met with a graceful curtsey. “And,” he swept to her left side in a sashaying move stolen from a different dance, which the woman mirrored, giving him an encouraging smile as she did so. “And then you . . .” he twirled back to her right and clapped on impulse. She echoed him and Steve heard it ripple around the room as the other nobles copied him.

He hesitated, floored as to what to suggest next, but his pause was interpreted as the end of his explanation and the head musician called out, “Places, places!”

Suddenly the floor was filled with people ready to dance, all copying Steve’s made-up steps which miraculously seemed to have created a passable dance.

“Thank you,” Steve whispered as he passed close to the woman.

“Call me Pepper.” She gave him a genial smile. “And relax,” she added on their next pass. “You’re doing fine.”

Steve didn’t have time to respond before he was twirling away to dance with the next partner in sequence.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

A few dances in, Steve couldn’t deny he was having fun. He’d successfully charmed everyone—apart from Rumlow who was the only person still annoyed by his presence—but Steve couldn’t help but think of the small cooking fire that would be waiting outside, with Sam, Natasha, Clint, and _Bucky_ , and Steve definitely knew where he would rather be.

Once the dancing had picked up and everyone was drunk enough not to miss him, Steve slipped out through a side door and picked his way back through the winding stone corridors and out into the night.

The revelry and dancing weren’t limited to within the castle walls and Steve got swept up into a wide-ranging rondel that filled the entire square, with the dancers all holding hands in a loose circle and stepping around in time to the beat from a group of musicians gathered at the centre. Steve let the dance drag him around to the other side of the square where he broke out from the circle and managed to slip down a side street back towards the camping ground.

“Our champion returns!” Sam greeted him sounding incredibly drunk when Steve stumbled back to their cooking fire—it looked like they’d all been celebrating wildly too, and they’d wrangled their own pair of musicians who sat by the fire tapping a drum and playing beautifully on a lute. Sam linked arms with Steve and spun him around a few times, before passing him off to Clint who linked arms and skipped around in the other direction. Then Natasha took over, surprising Steve by dancing with him for a few steps and actually smiling until Bucky cut in with a wide grin and stole him away to the other side of the fire.

“Hi,” Bucky said.

Steve didn’t reply, just ducked in to kiss him which made Bucky laugh so much that Steve had to break away until their laughter subsided. He ended up pressing their foreheads together instead and wound their hands together.

“How was it?” Bucky asked.

“Would have been better if you’d been there,” Steve answered, giving Bucky’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you for the dance lessons, I’d’ve been lost without them.”

“Bet you were lost anyway.” Bucky grinned back.

“Only a little.” Steve laughed. “I think I accepted an invitation to compete in Asgard’s Winter Games,” he added.

“Ha! Now that I would pay to see.”

“Yeah? I’ll have to take you with me if I go, then.”

Bucky just hummed. “Where are you heading to next?” he asked, staring deep into Steve’s eyes and sweeping Steve’s wayward hair back from his face.

“Greenwich. There’s a tournament there in two weeks. Are you going?”

“It’s not normally one we attend, but I’m sure I can convince my knight it’s in his best interests.”

“Right. Your knight.” Steve had honestly forgotten that Bucky was here squiring from someone. He still had no idea who it was Bucky worked for. “How did he fare this time?”

“Terribly. Pulled his back the first day in the archery contest, he’s been laid up ever since.”

“Bad luck for him.”

“Indeed. But great luck for me. I’ll make sure we find you in Greenwich.” Bucky brushed his knuckles against Steve’s jaw before he leant in to kiss Steve again, properly this time, without laughter getting in the way.

Steve sunk into it, practically melting into Bucky’s embrace. It stirred up a pleasure deep in Steve’s gut and filled his chest like the warmth of a hot beverage on a cold day or the tingling of stepping in front of a fire after a hike through the rain. It was discovery, but it also felt like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How amazing is the art! Thank you H 😍😍😍
> 
> PS if you want to some inspiration for the kind of anachronistic music the dancing might have devolved into, this [medieval rave track](https://twitter.com/MigueldOliveira/status/1313106259495837696?s=20) is amazing.


	8. Greenwich

They waited until they reached a small town two days walk from Ridgewood before they melted down the tournament prize and traded it in for coins. Coins that brought them food, shelter, and tournament provisions in the form of finer clothes for the three of them, and finally some barding for Devil. They still slept rough where possible, to save money, and hunted for their food; setting traps for rabbits, fishing in the streams they crossed, and—with Natasha’s help—shooting down game with a hunting bow. She was a terrific shot and once again Steve found himself wondering what her story was, and how she’d ended up working for Rumlow when she was clearly so self-sufficient.

The days were hot and the summer sun lingered long in the sky, baking the earth and making it difficult to travel by day. They walked in the twilight instead, covering the most distance at dusk or dawn, and spending their days in between stretched out on river banks or under the shade of trees. Steve gathered herbs where he could, using his unusual free time to resupply his medicinal store, and bought pre-made tinctures and salves from a healer they met on the road. She reminded Steve so much of his ma that it caused an ache in his chest, and he paid her more than she asked for, remembering how often they’d had to survive on the kindness of strangers in his youth. It was one thing to change his own stars, but Steve wished he could change the stars of everyone they passed; those toiling away in the fields doing backbreaking work to make ends meet, the peddlers, craftsmen, minstrels they crossed on the road. Steve would share his money with all of them if he could—which is probably why Sam insisted on keeping hold of it.

Steve knew the good weather couldn’t hold forever. It had been weeks since the last rain and the ground was starting to crack and dry. The rivers they forded were shrinking, and the rolling hills began to rust as the grass shrivelled and browned. By the time they reached Greenwich, a tense humidity hung in the air, threatening a summer storm. Pressure built until Steve could feel it pounding in his temples and the static was so thick he could practically taste it. He idly wondered if it was a sign, a bad omen perhaps, of impending change, like the old wives’ tales and superstitions his ma had so often muttered to him. _Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning._ He couldn’t remember if there was a saying associated with summer storms, but it definitely felt like there was a change in the air; like the other shoe needed to drop. Their ruse had been working well—almost too well; Steve was tournament champion, they had full bellies and warm clothes, and best of all, Bucky would be waiting for Steve in Greenwich. Steve suspected something had to change soon and he could only hope it would be nothing bad. 

They made good time to Greenwich and set up camp in the familiar field outside of the town walls. Greenwich had been a fixed staple on Phillip’s tournament calendar and Steve knew the town like the back of his hand. It wasn’t as fancy as Ridgewood or Astoria, and the prize money would be nothing like as impressive, nor the crowd quite so refined, but Steve felt more at home, brushing shoulders with the merchants and tourney patrons; thankful that no one ever paid attention to a knight’s squire and therefore no one recognised him as anything other than Lord Ipheion in his new woollen hose and fine doublet. It seemed like word spread fast that he was in town for the tournament, and soon the place was full of knights ready to try their hand against the Ridgewood champion; there were even rumours the Winter Soldier was in town. Rumlow too.

They spotted his carriage parked up at one of the grander taverns in town and had the pleasure of brushing shoulders with him the following day in the street. Rather, Rumlow went out of his way to knock into Steve as he strode past, turning back to sneer over his shoulder as Steve was forced to scramble out of his path.

“Man, he has some serious anger issues,” Sam muttered.

Whilst Natasha added, “Told you, you didn’t want to make an enemy of him.” 

But Steve wasn’t worried; they’d come to blows three times now, and each time Steve had come out on top. Rumlow would have to up his game if he wanted to get the better of Steve.

Finally, the weather broke the day before the tournament. The heavens opened in a tremendous thunderstorm that flooded the parched fields and quickly turned the tournament ground into a mire of mud. Steve got caught between the stables and tent, finding himself out in the open when the clouds broke and rain began to pour. He tilted his head up and opened his arms wide, letting it lash against his skin, and plaster his hair to his head, running in rivulets down to his eyes. He’d always loved a good rainstorm, even as a child when playing out in the cold and letting his clothes get sodden meant a high chance of catching a cold; it had made his mother anxious, it had made Phillips furious. But now there wasn’t anyone to tell him not to stand out and enjoy the rain.

“Steve! Are you mad? You’ll catch your death!”

Well, maybe not no one. Steve let his head fall back to level and found Bucky running towards him with a cloak held over his head. Steve couldn’t help but smile as he jogged forwards and let Bucky throw the cloak over both of them.

“We need to find shelter!” Bucky had to raise his voice above the din over the rain, even though they were standing so close. 

“This way.” Steve reached up to help hold the cloak with one hand and used the other to hold Bucky’s now free hand, pulling him along back towards town. 

Steve knew every nook and side street in Greenwich, all of the best hiding spots and secret escapes, including the way up into the bell tower on top of the church. It was a little bit of a climb, but Bucky managed to follow Steve easily, until they could crowd together under the steepled wooden roof, with the bell secured behind them. On a clear day, the view was beautiful, overlooking the town and the rolling green field fields that surrounded it, all the way to the forest in the west, and the spine of mountains in the north. You couldn’t see that now, not through the slanting rain and low-lying cloud, now there was only the suggestion of buildings and all of their contrasting architecture as the town had grown over time, shrouded through the mist and rain. But there was something equally beautiful about that like the whole world was nothing more than a washed-out backdrop for them. 

Bucky let the cloak fall from his shoulders and pressed up close to Steve. He’d kept the rain off himself much better than Steve had, and his hair was still dry, half bound back in plait whilst the rest brushed against his shoulders in loose waves. He looked beautiful, and with the rain sheeting down on all sides, cocooned in their little hiding place, separated from the world, it was so easy to lean in and kiss Bucky. So easy to let Steve’s fear of change, of discovery, of the lie that hung between them, fall away and lose himself in kiss after kiss after kiss. 

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The rain stopped after a few hours and they sat curled together, watching as the clouds rolled on by, letting weak sunlight filter through again and glisten off the wet slate roofs and puddles pooled between the cobblestones below. They stayed until Steve’s stomach began to growl and they were forced to clamber down from the bell tower and re-join civilisation. The air felt fresh and it was filled with the heady petrichor scent, that warm earthy fragrance of dry soil freshly soaked with rain, accompanied by the greener smell of wet grass. Of course, the ground quickly turned to mud as people began hurrying to-and-fro again once the rain had stopped, and Steve nearly lost his boots in the shin-deep squelch as they made their way across the camping grounds towards his tent. Fortunately, the high ground and the shallow trench Sam had wisely dug around their tent prevented it from being flooded.

But the same couldn’t be said for the tournament field. 

“They’ll postpone it, surely?” Sam said as he and Steve inspected the field at first light the following morning. It had rained again in the night, clearing the last of the humidity, but leaving the lists looking more like a marshy bog. 

“I doubt it.” Steve sighed. More and more people had arrived for the tournament, and the last thing the town needed was scores of restless spectators clamouring for violence with nothing to watch. “At least I’m riding first.” Once the ground got churned up during the course of the day, the joust was going to be even more treacherous than usual. 

“How’s it look?” Bucky asked when Steve and Sam returned from their scouting mission. Apparently, Bucky’s knight was holed up in a tavern in town, citing his back was aggravated by the weather. Bucky said he’d dropped out of the tournament and told him and Clint to get lost for the week, which had allowed them to pitch their camp alongside Steve’s. Although they both had to disappear for various errands, they’d taken to spending all of their downtime with Steve, Sam, and Natasha (when she was around). 

Steve’s face still brightened with a smile at the sight of Bucky sitting on the back of the wagon, idly sharpening a sword with a whetstone. Clint was sitting on the ground by the wagon fletching and arrow, and Natasha was characteristically absent. 

“Dire,” Sam said dryly. 

“No signs of it being postponed?” Bucky stared up at Steve, who could only shake his head. 

“Doesn’t look like it.” 

“Who are you up against?”

“Batroc?” Steve glanced at Sam for confirmation, who crossed his arms and nodded. 

“Ah, Sir Georges.” Bucky nodded.

“The ‘Leaper’,” Clint added without glancing up from the arrow he was fletching. “Good luck.” 

“The _leaper?_ ” Sam scoffed. 

“He’s renowned for fancy showjumping tricks on the battlefield. I hear he’s quite formidable.” 

“Wow, formidable? That’s a big word for you Clint,” Bucky laughed and nudged Clint’s shoulder with his foot. 

“Well, he can’t use showjumping tricks in a joust, Steve. I think you’ll be fine,” Sam offered.

“But he’s still fast. And strong,” Bucky warned. 

Steve propped his hands on his hips and shifted his weight on the rain-soaked ground. There was quite a lot of excitement surrounding his next joust, a lot of people were expecting him to win this tournament, some of them had travelled from far and wide to come and watch. Steve didn’t want to embarrass himself by going out in the first round. 

“Got any tips?”

“Don't get knocked off your horse?” Clint offered with a laugh. Bucky kicked him again whilst Steve dipped his head and fought back a smile.

“He's strong, but he's a show-off. Likes to add flair to his performance. He'll rise up in his stirrups to drive the blow home. If you aim low and off centre you might be able to push him off his balance. You won't unhorse him, but it should be enough to throw off his aim,” Bucky said. Steve looked up and caught his smile, holding it for a long moment until Clint cleared his throat.

“Well, we should probably go and fix Sir Whinge-a-Lot his breakfast.” He poked Buck’s leg with an arrow and tipped his head up to raise both of his eyebrows until Bucky nodded. Clint packed his freshly fletched arrows into a quiver and pushed himself to his feet as Bucky jumped down from the wagon, landing in the mid with a thick squelch. 

“See you later?” Steve asked as they prepared to set off.

“Of course. Good luck.” Bucky didn't offer a goodbye kiss, not with Sam and Clint staring at them, but he clapped a hand in Steve's shoulder, letting it linger long enough for Steve to bring his own hand up to cover it before he slipped off down the hill towards the town.

Steve watched him go and tried not to let out an audible sigh, though he must have given himself away anyway if Sam's long-suffering exhale was anything to go by.

“For god's sake Steve, you know nothing good can come of that?”

“Why can't it?”

“Because, _Ipheion_ , after this season we're going home, remember? I don't think Bucky will be half as impressed with you when he learns the truth.”

Steve glanced down at Bucky's retreating back, watching him jostle with Clint as they picked their way down the muddy track. He wanted to believe Bucky wouldn't be bothered by the truth, but it was impossible to know for sure. Sam was probably right. Compared to ‘Lord Ipheion’, why would anyone settle for lowly old ‘Steve’?

“Just focus on the tournament, yeah? That's why we're here.” Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder. 

“Yeah, okay.”

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

As they entered the tournament grounds, Steve spotted Bucky and Clint in the stands, sitting on the end of a row, grinning widely and waving one of the little flags bearing Steve's shield that were peppered throughout the crowd. An enterprising tradesman must have started selling them, and it made Steve's heart swell to see how many supporters had come out just to see him. Sam was less enthused when Steve pointed them out.

“Damn, why didn't we think of that? We could have made a fortune. Alright, now focus. Do you remember Bucky's pointers?”

“Aim low and off centre.”

“And don't push Devil too hard, the ground’s churned up already, after the first pass you’re going to be riding in soup,” Sam warned.

Steve nodded and forced his mind to settle. He focused on controlling his breathing before he closed his visor and tilted his lance, spurring Devil forward the moment the flag dropped.

Bucky’s technique worked like a charm. Batroc was an excellent rider, but he was too confident in his ability and rose up into his stirrups to strike at Steve with a flourish. When Steve thrust a sharp jab above Batroc’s left hip, it sent him listing to the side. He was forced to forgo his own attack in favour of staying on his horse and gave Steve a clean point. The second and third passes went the same way and Steve won the match easily, three lances to one. At the other end of the list, Batroc broiled with disappointment, snapping at his squires, rapid-fire in his native tongue. Steve could only recognise the odd word, and none of it sounded great.

He rode Devil slowly around the arena waving to the crowd and drinking up their praise before hurrying back to the stables and out of his armour in time to join the others and watch the rest of the day’s matches. The stands were packed and Steve and Sam couldn't fight their way through to where Bucky and Clint were sat—forced instead to hang over the railings at the far end of the stadium where there was space. Steve could just about see Bucky’s brown curls, and the flag Bucky continued to wave; it made Steve's heart glow with warmth every time he spotted it. 

They watched Rumlow trounce a local knight, and saw the yellow plumed Knight Steve and faced in his very first joust lose to someone who styled himself as 'Star Lord'. Next up it was the turn of the Winter Soldier. Steve kept glancing back to where he knew Bucky was sat, but the crowds had shifted and he could no longer spot him.

“This should be good,” Sam commented, drumming his hands on the railing with a grin.

The soldier was facing off against Sir Logan, another crowd favourite, who bore a feisty wolverine on his shield and had long spikes welded to the knuckles of his gauntlets. Steve had seen him in action at a few previous tournaments and had been looking forward to the opportunity of jousting against him, but before the match began, Logan's squire hurried across to the herald, slipping and sliding through to the mud to hastily confer with him. 

The flag was raised and the herald announced, “Sir Logan withdraws.”

“He withdrew? Why?” Steve asked, glancing between the two knights as muttering and shocked gasps rippled through the crowd.

“A withdrawal like that can mean only one thing,” Sam mused, staring at the Winter Soldier. “Royalty.” 

“Royalty?” Steve gaped. He watched, bewildered, as the Winter Soldier raised his lance in a salute before exiting the arena and disappearing from sight. Steve had suspected the Winter Soldier was rich and indisputably noble, given the secrecy surrounding his identity, but he'd never expected royalty. Given the shocked murmurs from the crowd, neither had anyone else.

“Who?” Steve wondered aloud. 

“I don't know, but we’d better find out. He's through by default so you’re facing him tomorrow.”


	9. True Nobility

“Wait! Wait!” Sam yelled and hurried towards Steve as he geared up for the joust.

Steve swung up onto Devil and settled into the saddle, he almost didn’t hear Sam over the roar of the crowd. Ipheion vs. the Winter Soldier. There’d been excitement rumbling through the tournament grounds all morning.

“Steve, stop! You can’t ride against him.” Sam grabbed hold of Devil’s halter and stared up at Steve with an anxious expression.

“There you are,” Steve hissed down at Sam. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.” Luckily, Natasha had been around for a change, or else Steve never would have got Devil ready in time.

“You can’t ride against him,” Sam repeated breathlessly. Steve stared at him confused.

“Why not?”

“The Winter Soldier is _Prince James!_ ” Sam told him. “The future king of Breuckelen.”

Steve lifted his gaze to stare at the Winter Soldier who was busily fixing his gauntlets with his visor down and determined set to his shoulders.

“Prince James?” Steve asked under his breath, staring at the Winter Soldier with renewed interest.

“Steve, you have to withdraw.” Sam urged.

“He’s in disguise so he can compete,” Steve retorted. _Like me_. “Lance,” he gestured to the lance Natasha was withholding from him, looking hesitantly between Sam and Steve.

“Nat, give me the lance.”

“You are mad!” Sam huffed. “You can’t endanger a member of the royal family!”

“He endangers himself,” Steve insisted. “It’s his choice.” If Prince James had gone to such lengths to disguise himself and compete over the years, he must have _wanted_ to. Besides, they’d faced each other before, what difference did it make now? “ _Lance_.” Steve pressed and Natasha passed it to him, shrugging at Sam as she did.

“Be careful?” she asked as she handed up the lance.

“Always,” Steve promised.

Sam bristled with anger but he just threw his hands up in the air and stalked off to the side without another word. Steve spared him a glance before trying to calm himself. The flag was about to drop and rather than feeling his usual sense of calm, Sam’s surprise announcement had filled Steve with jitters. He tried to focus, but as he stared down at his opponent, Steve’s nerves only grew.

The flag dropped and Steve charged against the Winter Soldier, against _Prince James_ —the man Steve had grown up hearing stories of, admiring him for the tales of his bravery and nobility from afar. Steve tried not to let that fact deter him, and tilted, aiming his lance high on the Soldier’s breastplate and gripping his shield tightly to make sure it covered his left flank. Steve’s lance smashed against the Soldier’s torso and shattered, as Steve batted the Winter Soldier’s blow away with his shield.

The crowd roared with delight that cut through the sound of blood pumping through Steve’s ears. He grinned behind his visor and geared up for round two. On the second pass, the Winter Soldier gave no quarter, slamming his lance at Steve’s shield with a powerful blow. It rocked Steve backward and splintered in a mist of wooden fragments. Steve screwed his eyes shut behind his visor and cantered on; his own lance remained unbroken, which tied the score 1-1. It all came down to the third lance.

Steve ground his teeth in determination as Devil galloped down the list. Mud flew up behind his hooves and the crowd roared in Steve’s ears. The ground was decidedly less firm that it had been on their opening pass and Steve could tell that Devil was struggling to stay steady, Steve eased off his grip on the reins and Devil slowed a degree, cantering with surefooted swiftness. Across from him, the Winter Soldier pressed on. The flanks of his snowy white horse were speckled with mud, and its hooves were caked muck that tracked up its shins. As they drew level, the Soldier’s horse stumbled—just slightly—in the soft mud. The Soldier was thrown off balance and his lance caught in the central fence. It was wrenched from the Soldier’s grip with a painful twist of his wrist, and he hunched forwards to keep his balance.

It all happened too quickly for Steve to do anything to change the angle of his strike, and Steve watched in horror as the blow he’d meant to smash against the Soldier’s torso went slamming into his face. Steve had thrown all of his weight behind the blow and the lunge from the horse’s misstep gave the Soldier a momentum of his own that was enough to crush the visor against the Soldier—or rather the _Prince’s—_ face. Steve retraced his lance as fast as he could and cantered around the end of the list, to come level with the Prince who was much slower to recover.

Steve raised his visor and fretted with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked, too afraid he’d injured the Prince to worry about standing on ceremony. “I didn’t mean for that last blow to be so brutal—”

The Prince cut him off with a wave of his hand. “’m fine,” came a croaked and muffled response through the crumpled visor. “Good luck with the tournament.” Then he gave a _‘YAH!’_ to spur his horse away. Steve didn’t think he imagined the hiss of pain that accompanied the movement.

“Mad. Utterly mad.” Sam scolded him when he trotted back to him and Natasha. Even she looked furious with Steve.

Other than her sardonic little half-smile, or the anger that had flared when they first met, Steve hadn’t seen her show any emotion, now the worry in her eyes was enough to give him pause.

“What happened to being careful?” she demanded. “First you humiliate Rumlow, now you injure the Prince. Do you have a death wish?”

“He’ll be okay,” Steve mumbled, hoping it was true.

“He better had,” Sam muttered, grabbing Devil by the halter to lead him back to the stables. “Or else it’ll be your head on a pike.”

Steve twisted as much in the saddle and his armour would allow, to watch the Prince’s retreating back; unsure how to feel about the whole situation, and unable to take any joy from his victory whilst his mind was twisted with guilt and worry that he’d injured the Prince.

Steve took his time grooming Devil in the stables after Sam stripped Steve of his armour and carted it back to camp to be cleaned. It helped calm Steve’s mind as he focused on washing Devil down; brushing the flecks of mud from his coat, and carefully picking out all of the mud from Devil’s hooves. Devil snickered softly as Steve ran his hands across Devil’s nose, stroking a strong hand down his forehead and scratching behind his ears until Steve couldn’t in good conscience waste any more time, and retreated back to camp.

The sun was just starting to sink behind the tops of the tall tree that covered the rolling hills to the west of Greenwich when Steve trudged up the hill, sending pretty shafts of sunlight cutting up into the sky and casting everything in a cool shadow even though it was still early in the evening. He picked his way carefully up the muddy track, watching his step in the deep patches of mud that still clung to the slope. When the track levelled off and lifted his head, Steve saw a commotion in front of Bucky’s tent. Sam and Clint were talking in angry but hushed tones, and Nat stalked out in a flurry of annoyance, muttering something under her breath in a language Steve didn’t understand, before brushing past him back towards town.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked with a flurry of anxiety in his chest. He glanced over his shoulder at Nat, before turning back to Sam and waiting for him to answer.

“Bucky’s hurt,” Sam offered after a long pause.

“What?!” All thoughts of the Prince evaporated from Steve’s mind.

“He got into a fight,” Clint explained, grabbing Steve’s arm and preventing him from storming into the tent.

“A fight?” Steve shrugged his arm free but refrained from bursting in until he had more information.

“Over a bet.” Clint sighed. “He’ll be fine—just, go easy on him?”

Steve clenched his jaw and nodded. Taking a breath to steel himself, Steve ducked into the tent and saw Bucky laid up against a stack of pillows, a few of which looked like they’d been borrowed from Steve’s bed. He couldn’t say that he minded. Not when Bucky looked so miserable. His face was bruised around his right eye and marred with scratches that had clearly been cleaned already. A larger one that cut across his eyebrow, worryingly close to his eye, had already been sewn closed with neat but painful-looking stitches.

“Bucky!” Steve couldn’t hold back a gasp.

“Hi, Steve.” Bucky squirmed against the pillows to try and sit up more to greet him but hissed as he put any weight on his splinted right arm. “It’s just sprained.” He assured Steve as he hurried over.

“You look terrible.” Steve tried to hide just how concerned he was, taking pains to keep his steps careful and controlled as he walked over to the bed and perched on the edge. But he couldn’t do much about the obvious worry shining from his eyes.

“Looks worse than it is,” Bucky huffed.

Steve managed a smile, pleased to see Bucky was still in a good mood despite his injuries. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I should see the other guy?”

“The other _three_.” Bucky gave a low chuckle.

“Has the surgeon been?”

“Left just before you got here.”

“And?”

“Says I’ll live.” Bucky smiled.

“I should hope so.” Steve smiled back. “What were you thinking? Getting into a fight over a bet?”

“Says the man who willing charges into a joust on the regular.” Bucky arched an eyebrow.

“At least I wear _armour_.”

“Not sure it would have helped in this instance.” Bucky settled back into the cushions with a hiss that belied some broken or bruised ribs.

“Can I do anything? Willow bark tea?” Steve offered, he hated seeing Bucky in such clear and obvious pain.

“The surgeon gave me some already.” Bucky flashed another weary smile.

“What about something for your ribs?”

“Nothing to be done for them,” Bucky huffed. “They’ll heal.”

“They’ll heal faster with some ointment.” Steve raised his eyebrows, waiting for Bucky to disagree. When he didn’t, Steve pushed himself up from the bed. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where, exactly, can I go?” Bucky huffed as Steve ducked out of the tent and hurried to find his box of medicines.

Sam was building up the cooking fire they’d established between their camp and Clint had begun plucking a pheasant with determination when Steve hurried past.

“How’s he doing?” Sam called to Steve.

“Says he’ll be fine,” Steve returned.

“He will be _now_ ,” Clint snickered under his breath and Sam snorted with laughter.

Steve pointedly ignored them and tried desperately not to blush as he ducked back into the tent, but he clearly hadn’t done a very good job, if the smirk Bucky gave him was anything to go by.

“Are they teasing you?” Bucky laughed, before cutting it short with a hiss.

“Teasing us _both._ ” Steve shook his head and hurried to open up the chest and dig through to find the right salve. “This will soothe the ache,” he told Bucky, holding up the little clay pot he stored the arnica paste in. He held it out, intending for Bucky to apply it himself, but Bucky simply lifted his homespun shirt to display the glorious pattern of purples and blues that mottled his torso. _Some surgeon,_ was Steve’s first thought, they hadn’t even strapped up Bucky’s ribs. Letting out his irritation in a sigh, Steve settled onto the bed as gently as he could and scooped some paste with his fingers.

“Let me know if I’m being too rough,” he said, voice laced with nerves, as he reached to rub the cream onto Bucky’s ribs. Bucky hissed at the touch, his stomach flinched, muscles rippling taught beneath his smooth skin. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Bucky promised, so Steve continued, with ever such a gentle touch, to rub the cream in. Bucky’s skin was hot under his hand, inflamed around the bruised ribs, but Steve felt nothing broken as he smoothed his fingers over it. The cream smelt faintly aromatic, in a way that always filled Steve with nostalgia for his ma’s workroom at home, and when he glanced up at Bucky to see him smiling down at with a fond tenderness, his heart soared.

“Let it sink in, then I’ll strap them up, for you,” Steve said as he wiped the last of the paste across Bucky’s stomach.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed. “My hero.”

“I don’t know about that.” Steve dipped his head in a shy smile, but Bucky just beamed at him and it was hard to feel insecure when faced with such surety of feeling. Steve packed away the cream and stowed the wooden box gently on the floor, before he settled back on the bed, folding a leg beneath him so he could twist to face Bucky. The light was dim in the tent, but great beeswax candles hung from lanterns fixed to the supports, which cast everything in a muted golden glow, and filled the air with a honeyed scent that mingled well with the herbs of Steve’s medicine chest.

“How did you fare in the joust?” Bucky asked, his hand inched towards Steve’s on the bed and started playing with the blanket a hair’s breadth from Steve’s fingers. It was easy for Steve to flex his hand and let their fingers brush.

“I won. Just.” Steve smiled.

“Yeah?”

“An unlucky stumble from the Soldier’s horse,” Steve explained. “He would have had me beat otherwise, I’m sure.”

“I’m not.” Bucky insisted and reached out to cover Steve’s hand with his own. “You’re a tournament champion, Steve.”

“So’s he. A few times over. And he has more experience—infinitely more if he’s really the Prince.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide and his fingers clenched around Steve’s in surprise.

“Didn’t you hear? It’s all over the tournament, Sam told me just before I rode. Apparently, the Winter Soldier is _Prince_ _James_ , of Breuckelen.” Steve raised his eyebrows, waiting for Bucky’s reaction. Bucky looked shocked.

“And you knew? And yet you tilted anyway?” Bucky asked.

“Well, yeah. He was disguised, he clearly _wanted_ to joust, why should I take that away from him?” Steve frowned, watching as Bucky’s shock gave way to something that looked fond.

“You are truly noble.” Bucky sounded a little exasperated, but exceptionally affectionate, and he raised his hand to grasp the front of Steve’s tunic and pull him close for a gentle kiss. Steve went easily, supporting himself with his hands on the bed, unsure which areas of Bucky were safe to touch. The kiss was sweet and tender, with no urgency or other agenda. Warmth ignited in Steve’s chest and his heart felt full. Had Bucky not been convalescent, and were it not the nagging guilt at the back of his mind, Steve would have felt on top of the world.

“About that—” Steve tried to break away, but Bucky’s non-splinted hand held firm to his tunic and didn’t let Steve pull back.

“No. You _are_.” Bucky insisted, thinking that Steve was merely being self-deprecating. “Noble. Kind-hearted. And good.” Bucky emphasised each statement with a kiss. “I think that’s what I love about you the most.” He spoke so easily and with such honesty that it took a long moment for Steve to realise what Bucky had said.

“You love me?” Steve did pull back this time and stared at Bucky in wonderment. Even with the bruises and the scrapes, Bucky was unfairly attractive, and with his charming, confident personality shining through, he was the most beautiful man Steve had ever met.

“Yes, I do.” Bucky’s fingers worried at Steve’s tunic. “I’m sorry if that scares you. It scares me a little bit too—”

Steve shook his head and leant in for another kiss. That wasn’t what scared him; Steve was fairly certain he felt the same. The problem was that Steve was lying to Bucky; and now that _feelings_ were involved, Steve knew he definitely couldn’t keep his secret from Bucky any longer, and he was scared of what might happen when came clean.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Steve tried again, but once again Bucky cut him off. With a sharp shake of his head this time.

“No. Not now.”

“But I do.” Steve insisted. He gingerly brought his hand to wrap around the bicep on Bucky’s uninjured arm.

“Steve,” Bucky began, then paused to gather his thoughts. He glanced down at his legs and the muscle in his jaw jumped a few times. “Things are happening. There are rumours that Hydra is planning to launch an attack on Breuckelen.”

Steve was baffled. “What?” he asked, not following how that related to them.

“If they do, then I’ll—my _knight—_ will be called away to fight and I’ll have to go with him.”

Steve’s grip tightened. “When?”

“Very soon,” Bucky said in a quiet whisper, and suddenly the grumblings and mutterings at the banquet in Ridgewood all made sense.

It hadn’t just been idle talk of weapons trade, it had been countries gearing up to enter or avoid a war. _War_. Breuckelen and Hydra had been ‘at war’ for as long as Steve remembered, but the skirmishes themselves normally only lasted a month or two. Both sides kept their coastal defences strong to act as a deterrent and it had been years since Steve remembered the King calling for his bannermen or raising companies to actually fight.

“Don’t go.” Steve pleaded.

“I have to—”

“Stay with me. You and Clint both, I can take you on as squires, we can—”

“No, Steve. It’s my duty. I can’t run away from it.” Bucky gave Steve a sad smile whilst Steve floundered. Screw duty and nobility, the thought of Bucky going to _war_ was unbearable. Squires died during wars just as often as their knights, when camps were overrun, or if they charged into battle as flag bearers or foot soldiers themselves. Somehow Steve couldn’t see Bucky sitting back at camp waiting for the fighting to be done each day.

“Then,” Steve swallowed. “Then, I’ll come with you.”

“No.” Bucky’s hand found its way to Steve’s face and he cupped Steve’s jaw. “It’s not your fight. Stay here and win the tournament for me?”

It felt like all of the breath evaporated from Steve’s lungs. There were only a few days of the tournament left, Steve hadn’t realised ‘soon’ meant _that_ soon.

“When?” he asked again.

“Most likely tomorrow morning. Word came today, and he’s not competing, so,” Bucky trailed off.

“So,” Steve echoed, feeling numb. It was hard to imagine how happy he’d felt just moments previously. Tomorrow was far too soon. Steve had been counting on spending the whole tournament season with Bucky before had to come clean. He thought he had months before that painful moment of truth would have spelled either goodbye or marked the start of a long and happy future together. Now they just had one night.

“So, whatever it is you think you have to tell me—don’t. Not today.” Bucky swiped his thumb across Steve’s cheekbone.

“Alright.” Steve agreed, there was no using marring that evening with arguments. The secret could keep for another night; until the war was over and they were reunited again.

“Come here?” Bucky gestured to the spot on the bed beside him and tried to shuffle across before the pain in his ribs stifled the movement, reminding Steve he still needed to strap them up.

He worked quickly, winding one of the long lengths of cloth he kept on hand for precisely that reason; biding up Bucky’s torso to keep his ribs safe from unnecessary movement. It meant he had to practically straddle Bucky’s lap into order to wind the cloth around his back, and the moment Steve had tied it off, Bucky pulled him down for another kiss.

This time, there was far more urgency as Bucky’s lips locked with Steve’s and he arched up as much as his injuries would allow. His kisses were fuelled with intent this time, a drive to cover the new ground they’d been unable to explore in the stables, or under the watchful eyes of their friends around the cooking fire.

“Careful,” Steve warned. “Lay back.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But despite his protests, Bucky settled back into the pillows; letting Steve do the hard work of propping himself above Bucky as they kissed. Bucky’s uninjured arm wrapped around the back of Steve’s head and his fingers wound themselves in Steve’s hair to hold him close as the kiss deepened. Steve parted his lips and gasped when Bucky’s tongue swept against his own; nearly knocking the strength from Steve’s arms as he was overwhelmed with the desire to sink against Bucky.

He lost himself in the blue of Bucky’s eyes, the brush of stubble against his jaw, the taste of Bucky’s lips, and the sure confidence of the machinations of his tongue. Every kiss, every nip, and swipe seemed designed to pull Steve apart at the seams until he dropped, carefully, to the mattress at Bucky’s side, trembling all over with a feeling of such intense desire that he didn’t know what to do with it all.

Steve had fooled around with people before, other squires in the stables between Phillip’s jousts, the merchant’s daughter one time in Lehigh, he wasn’t completely inexperienced. But those explorations had been driven purely out of youthful curiosity; Steve had never been filled with such an overwhelming _need_ before like his future happiness was dependent upon getting his mouth on Bucky and kissing every inch of him as much as possible.

He stared over at Bucky, and traced the sweeping line of Bucky’s jaw with his knuckles, pausing to press his thumb against the dimple in Bucky’s chin. Bucky tilted his chin downwards to catch Steve’s thumb with another kiss, and Steve was perfectly sure that if Bucky’s ribs hadn’t prohibited such movement, that he would have rolled across to straddle Steve and re-ignite their kissing anew. Instead, he used his free hand to drag Steve’s arm across his chest and pressed in as close to Steve’s side as he could.

The angle wasn’t great, but Steve turned his head towards Bucky like a sunflower seeking the sun and peppered a trail of soft kisses against every part of Bucky’s jaw that he could reach. Bucky gave a gentle gasp when Steve pressed a kiss to the soft skin behind Bucky’s ear, which quickly turned into a moan when Steve pulled the lobe between his teeth and gave it the softest nip. In retaliation, Bucky pushed Steve’s hand down his torso and guided Steve’s fingers to curl around his hardened length. Steve hesitated and searched Bucky’s eyes, which were bright and wide with hope.

“I want you, Steve,” Bucky murmured as if he hadn’t already made that perfectly clear.

“You’re _injured_.” Steve protested.

“So, we’ll be careful,” Bucky answered easily. He gripped his hands around Steve’s and arched into the touch with an obvious spark of pleasure, mingled with a soft exhale of pain. “I was always told to take the bad with the _good_ ,” he whispered in a sultry voice when Steve didn’t remove his hand.

“You know as well as I, that isn’t what saying means,” Steve whispered back, but his own arousal was hot and heavy between his legs, and it was difficult to stay sensible when Bucky began to slowly drag Steve’s hand up and down.

“Please, Steve? Make me feel good? Make me forget the pain?”

And, really, how could Steve resist him? He straddled Bucky again and kissed him with a teasing slowness whilst he unlaced the front of Bucky’s braies and slipped his hand inside, working Bucky over with gentle, but unrelenting movements, until Bucky’s pleasure crested through him and he slumped against the pillows lax and calm.

“I love you.” Bucky sighed against Steve’s mouth and Steve drank in the words with another kiss.

“I love you too,” Steve replied. The smile that dawned across Bucky’s blissed-out face filled Steve with more joy than winning a thousand tournaments ever could. Steve pressed another trail of kisses, this time along Bucky’s collar bones before he eased himself off Bucky to curl up at his side once more. Bucky made a half-hearted attempt to reach for Steve’s trousers, but his injuries, the willow bark, and his orgasm were all finally catching up to him, and he gave a gentle murmur of something incomprehensible, before drifting off to sleep.

Steve watched him as uncounted minutes slipped by until the smell of roasting pheasant wafted under the tent and Steve’s hunger forced him out of bed. He brushed Bucky’s hair back from his head and placed a kiss on Bucky’s temple before he carefully extracted himself from the bed.

Thankfully no one commented when Steve emerged from the tent, but Sam’s knowing grin as he passed him his dinner told Steve they all knew _exactly_ what had happened between him and Bucky, and Steve found himself blushing into his plate just the same.

Clint was struggling to suppress a grin, and even Natasha’s mouth quirked up a little when Steve took his seat around the fire. Steve was relieved to see that she’d returned from wherever it was she’d stormed off to. She had an irritated look etched into her face, but her voice was as calm as ever when she asked Steve about his chances for the rest of the tournament. Steve didn’t understand what had made her so upset, but he thought it best not to ask, and let her steer the conversation to her liking. Not that Steve was much in the mood to talk, his thoughts were still back with Bucky in the tent.

“Go back to him,” Clint said eventually. “And take him some food, will you?”

Steve glanced up, pulled from his reverie to see Clint standing over him with a second plate of food.

“I’ll sleep in with Sam, tonight. But—I suppose he warned you? We’re leaving at first light.”

“Yeah, he did. Wake me when you need to leave—I’ll help you pack the tent.”

Clint didn’t bother to argue that it shouldn't be a knight’s job; they’d all grown comfortably familiar with each other by then, and Steve knew he was going to miss Clint and Bucky something fierce when they had to leave.

“Look out for each other, won’t you? Stay safe?” Steve hated the idea of them going off to war.

“I promise I’ll do my best,” Clint offered, before jabbing Steve with his elbow. “If you promise not to wear him out too much tonight.” He smirked and handed over the plate, before leaving Steve to blush in private.

Bucky stirred when Steve ducked back into the tent, and Steve managed to coax him to enough wakefulness to eat some food, although as soon as he woke up properly, he was far more interested in kissing Steve and reciprocating the pleasure from earlier.

Later, both strung out and lethargic from several orgasms, Bucky curled up in Steve’s arms and fell easily back to sleep. Steve held him close, enjoying the weight and warmth of holding Bucky cuddled close. It was easy to lose himself in the moment, but he knew one day he would have to tell Bucky the truth. He made a promise to himself, curled around Bucky in the dark of his tent, that next time they saw each other, no matter what happened, Steve would come clean.


	10. War

Steve felt useless. War was raging in the South, Prince James was leading the defence and all of Breuckelen’s knights had been called up to defend their country; whilst Steve continued to play at being a knight, competing in meaningless tournaments instead of fighting for anything worthwhile. 

Ironvhan hadn’t let their neighbours’ war impact the tournament calendar, if anything the tournaments were more lavish than ever in an effort to boost morale. Steve was sick of making polite conversation at tournament banquets; eating rich food he longed to send to war-torn towns; listening to people commenting on the war like it was a sport. And, with half the roster of knights otherwise engaged, Steve attended more than his fair share of tournament banquets. He easily won joust after joust: crowned champion in Chelsea, Elmhurst, and Yorkville. No one was able to beat him. Not even Rumlow, who looked more and more surly and annoyed each time Steve crossed paths with him.

“Why’s _he_ not been called away to war?” Steve demanded in an annoyed huff when they entered Glendale for the penultimate tournament of the season and spotted Rumlow’s familiar spiky black carriage parked outside a lavish-looking inn. 

“I heard he was disgraced,” Natasha commented in a low voice. Steve had long ago given up trying to work out where Natasha got her information from. “Hydra exiled him. He’s going to be more determined to beat you than ever. So be careful,” she pressed. “If Sam and I didn’t already prepare all your food for you, I’d suggest getting a taster.”

“Hey, I help with the cooking.” Steve insisted, choosing not to dwell on her real point; that Rumlow might stoop to poison Steve for the sake of winning a tournament. 

“Yeah, right,” Sam scoffed.

“Well, I _would_ , if you _let_ me.”

“After what you did to those chillies I paid over the odds for, I don’t _want_ your help.” Sam laughed. Steve opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t really have a leg to stand on. He could whip up herbal remedies without a problem, but he tried to use those same skills to cook an actual meal? Well, the less said about that, the better. 

“Well,” he floundered. “Quit complaining, if you don’t _want_ my help.”

Sam and Natasha just laughed at him. 

They set up camp at the far end of the camping grounds, and Sam left to enter Steve into the tournament whilst Steve and Natasha worked together to erect the two tents they now owned and built a fire pit to set up their cooking fire. 

Although they’d saved most of the tournament winnings to take home, they’d spared some expenses to make life on the road a little more comfortable: a second tent to afford Natasha some privacy, better clothing for all of them, a new wagon to accommodate the horse Steve had won in the joust at Elmhurst (a beautiful piebald horse who responded to the name Figaro, and had taken a shine to Sam), and—Steve’s favourite purchase of all—some wooden folding chairs which made sitting around the fire far less of a strain on Steve’s back. The armour and shield were still helping to save him from serious injury in each joust, but the aches and pains still built up and he worked his way through his store of medicinal herbs as quickly as he could re-supply them. 

With the tent and beds all built, Steve set his chair by the fire and kicked out his legs to bask in the warmth of the evening sun. Beside him, Natasha spread her blanket on the ground and curled up like a cat by a warm hearth.

“Lord Ipheion is officially registered for the Joust,” Sam announced as he strode back to camp. “You’re up against Logan in round one. Tomorrow, first event of the day.”

“Clearly they want to kick things off in style.” Steve pushed his mouth into a smile. 

“Think you can beat him?” Natasha surprised Steve by asking—he’d thought she’d gone to sleep. 

“I guess we’ll find out.” 

“I guess we will.” Sam grinned and took a seat across the fire which was licking energetically at the wood, sending occasional crackles and pops in the evening air as water trapped within the logs exploded in small puffs of steam. Steve stared into the crackling flames and breathed in the familiar smell of woodsmoke, mulling over all he knew about Logan and his fighting style, whilst he tried hard not to let his mind wander to the thought of Bucky. But thoughts of Bucky were never far from Steve’s mind and he couldn’t help but wonder whether Bucky would be sitting around a similar fire, worrying about facing a real battle on the morrow.

Steve’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice calling a greeting across the campsite. 

“Evening all.” Clint grinned broadly at them as he cut between the tents. Steve returned the smile and glanced beyond Clint’s shoulders, heart beating wildly as he tried to spot Bucky. “It’s just me, I’m afraid.” Clint correctly interpreted Steve’s hopeful expression. “But he’s alive and well. And he sent me with this,” he added, fishing a letter from inside his jerkin. 

Steve felt himself deflate as the hope of seeing Bucky evaporate from his chest. But at least he was alive, that was more news than Steve had had in weeks and he clung tightly to that bright ember. 

“Thank you,” he told Clint with sincerity. Clint gave him a compassionate smile before turning to greet Sam and Natasha in turn with hearty hugs for each.

“Mind if I join you for dinner? I’ve got to leave before dawn if I’m to catch up with the troops before they leave Fort Hamilton, but I’d kill for some good company.”

“Not sure you’ve come to the right place, then,” Natasha commented with a sardonic smile. 

“I _have_ , trust me. It’s good to see you again.” He settled on the ground beside Natasha and shrugged off his thick travelling cloak, making himself at home with an ease that made Steve smile. 

Steve watched for a minute before he remembered the letter had clutched in his hand and ripped open the seal with haste. He scanned it quickly, checking for bad news—despite Clint’s assurances that Bucky was okay—before his heart rate calmed and he could settle back into his chair and read it by the firelight. 

_‘My Dearest Steve,_

_I wish I could have written to you sooner, but this is the first chance we’ve had to breathe. I promise you I’m fine, and it looks like we might have them on the run. I had hoped to make it back in time to see you in Glendale, but it wasn’t possible to get away; this letter I send with Clint will have to suffice. I hope it is not too forward to say that I miss you. I miss you so much it makes my heartache, and I selfishly hope you miss me too.’_

God, yes, of course, I do, Steve thought as he read. 

_‘News from the tournaments has reached us here at the front, and I’ve taken joy in bragging that I know the famous Lord Ipheion. I’m trusting you to win the season for me, I know you will (and I placed a considerable wager to that effect, so don’t let me down).’_

Oh, Bucky, Steve shook his head. 

_‘I’d be there in a heartbeat to watch you ride if I could._

_I’m sorry this letter is so short and scratched out in the rain and mud so that it’s probably illegible. Please know that not a day goes by where I do not think of you and smile; smile because I know you are not tangled in this war. It is my greatest consolation to know that you are safely far away. This war will not last forever, and I live in hope of seeing you again soon; it guides me through the day and especially the night._

_Steve, knight of my heart, I love you and will see you soon._

_With all my love,_

_Bucky’_

Steve read the letter again and again until the words were ingrained upon his heart. He marveled at the beautiful flowing script of Bucky’s hand and traced his fingers across the parchment, feeling his heart swell at the words, at the hope that the war would be over soon, and the knowledge that, for now, Bucky was safe. 

Giving a long, slow exhale, Steve lowered the letter with trembling hands. Although it had given him hope, the letter had also filled him with conflicting, desperate longing. As comforting as it had been to read Bucky’s words, it brought on an even greater yearning to see him again; his smile, his bright eyes; to hear his laugh or feel the brush of his lips. 

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, staring at him from across the fire with a look of concern. 

“He’s fine.” Steve cleared his throat and managed a weak smile in return. “ _Thank God_.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it gently and giving an angry huff. “I should be out there with him. Not here, playing pretend,” he muttered in an angry whisper.

Sam’s concern boiled down into a frown, but it was Clint who spoke up.

“Trust me. You don’t want to be out there. Besides, Bucky’d be even more miserable if you were.”

“Even more?” Steve asked in a low voice.

“Yeah, he misses you like hell—didn’t he put that in the letter?”

Steve swallowed around a lump in his throat.

“The only thing he ever talks about is your tournament standings.” Clint laughed. “Speaking of, you got any of those little flags to spare? I’ve been given instructions to bring back a dozen; half the army is rooting for to win the season, you know. Prince James too, so I’m told.” Clint grinned and winked. “We’re all counting on you. Can’t let that Hydra bastard win.”

“Rumlow doesn’t stand a chance,” Sam assured Clint. 

“. . . No,” Steve agreed, distracted by his lingering feeling of impotence. He knew there was no way for him to fight, he’d blow his cover in an instant. And as skilled as he was in the sword ring, it was nothing compared to fighting an actual battle where life and death hinged in the balance. But still . . . “You said the army was leaving Fort Hamilton?”

“In a few days—trusting things didn’t take a turn for the worse after I left.” 

Fort Hamilton was so close to Steve’s hometown of Red Hook, he hated to hear how close the fighting was to his home, to his ma. 

“Where are you headed?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Bucky made me promise not to. Seemed to think you’d try to follow.”

Nat gave a snort that indicated she agreed that Steve would try to do just that. 

“I could find out if I wanted to,” Steve protested, but that wasn’t the issue at hand. “Just tell me if you’re headed North—towards Red Hook? Is the fighting bad there?” He caught Sam’s gaze across the fire again.

“What’s so special about Red Hook?” Clint narrowed his gaze. 

“Nothing . . . I . . .” but Steve couldn’t bother to think of a lie, luckily Clint took pity on him. 

“No, we’re headed South,” Clint offered and Steve exhaled. He nodded and glanced back down at the letter, the cream coloured parchment glowed yellow in the firelight. 

“Can you take a letter back from me?”

“Of course.” 

Steve retreated to the tent for a spot of privacy, lighting the giant beeswax candles they had placed around the tent and in the lanterns affixed to the supports. They gave off a subtle, earthy scent tinged with the sweet aroma of honey, as well as a bright golden glow that gave Steve plenty of light in which to compose his reply. The problem was, Steve had no idea what to write. He was bursting with things he wanted to say, but the thoughts scattered like dandelion fluff in the breeze whenever he tried to capture them on paper. 

After sitting and wasting candlelight for far too long, Steve huffed out the lanterns and traipsed back to the others by the firelight. Words had never been his strong suit, at least not words on paper. 

“Finished already? You write quick,” Sam commented. He was busy preparing the last of the game they’d caught on their way to Glendale, whilst Natasha chopped vegetables with a dangerous speed, and Clint napped by the fire. 

“Hardly. I don’t know what to say.” Steve glanced between them, his expression begged for their help. “I miss him desperately, but, where do I even start? It’s been more than a month . . .” Steve trailed off and glanced up at the moon which shone, waxing gibbous, shining a bright yellow light across the town and the camping grounds. “It is strange to think, I have seen the new moon—but not him.”

“There you go, there’s your opening.” Clint cracked open an eye and smiled. 

Steve glanced around at the three of them expecting them to tease, but when he glanced across the fire, he found only encouragement in Sam’s expression. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, feeling like he’d much rather be staring down the Winter Soldier in the lists right then, Steve inked his quill and hastily began to write:

_‘My beloved, Bucky,_

_It is strange to think I have not seen you in a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face.’_

Steve scribbled with a rush of inspiration, that dried up as quickly as his ink. He refreshed the quill and pondered. 

_‘I miss you—’_

“I miss him, like . . ?” Steve couldn’t describe the pang of longing he felt when they reached each new town and Steve realised Bucky was still absent. 

“Like the sun misses the flower,” Sam suggested softly. He’d dropped his gaze to stare intently at the grouse he was plucking. “Like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter.” 

Steve’s heart went out to Sam. They didn’t often speak of their lives before they’d found their way into Phillip’s service, but Steve knew there was heartache in Sam’s past. He hesitated for a moment until, noticing the absence of the quill scratching on parchment, Sam nodded for Steve to borrow the line.

_‘I miss you like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Every tournament without your presence feels empty and cold without it. Each victory feels hollow without you to share it with. I will try to do you proud and win the season, and if I triumph it will be because I know you are cheering for me, wherever in the world you are. If I lose, don’t blame me for your lost wager, and certainly don’t lose any more fights over it, especially when I’m not there to patch you up. I’ve sent some arnica paste with Clint, though I hope that you will not need it. I pray you will survive the whole war unscathed, and I dream of the day we will see each other again._

_Thank you for finding the time to write and assure me of your safety, please take care. It’s not too forward, I miss you too. Desperately.’_

Steve wanted to add how much he longed to be out there fighting alongside Bucky, but the words tasted too bitter in his mouth and he knew it would spoil the letter. “How do I end it?”

“With a promise,” Natasha suggested, piping from her spot on the floor. She carried on dicing carrots without even looking up. “A promise that, despite the distance, your love stays true.”

“A promise,” Steve pondered.

_‘We will see each other soon, I know this to be true. By the stars that guide our fate, I promise we will see each other soon._

_Knight of your heart, with all the love I possess,_

_Steve’_

They would see each other again, of that Steve was certain, and when they did, he would come clean about his identity. He could only hope they might be able to build a life together from there.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Clint kept them entertained with war stories all evening, and in turn, they supplied him with all of the gossip from the tournaments that didn’t make it into the official reports. He had to turn in early to catch some sleep before his return journey, and Natasha turned in shortly after, leaving Sam and Steve sitting across from each other as the fire burned low. 

“I’m going to tell him,” Steve admitted, speaking softly above the gentle crackling of the burning wood. “When I see Bucky again. I’m going to tell him who I really am.”

Sam just nodded. “I’m surprised you haven’t already,” he offered with a smile. “We both know you’re a terrible liar.”

Steve smiled, letting out a soft huff of laughter, which didn’t carry any mirth. “And I want to go home. I think it’s time.”

“It’s well past time,” Sam countered with a brighter laugh. “But you’re right. It’s time we headed home. Might as well go out on a high and win this season first though?”

“I’ll try,” Steve promised. He tipped his head back and gazed up at the dazzling canopy of stars that domed overhead. It was a clear night and even with the fire burning low in front of them, the stars were bright and beautiful. He couldn’t see the destiny that had been mapped out for him up there, or for his ma, for Sam, or Bucky, or Nat, or Clint, but he hoped—with their hard work over the past few months—that they’d made some lasting changes for the better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get the letter writing scene in there somewhere 😊😊 Hopefully I didn't butcher it too badly!


	11. Victory

Steve rode to victory in Glendale, spurred on by the knowledge that Bucky was out there, somewhere, rooting for him. As they made their way towards Hunter’s Point for the final tournament in the season, crowds gathered in force to cheer Steve on. Hunter’s Point was set on the North East coast of Ironvhan, an imposing royal palace built to withstand the strong winds that rolled in from the sea and the would-be invaders who had once threatened the shoreline. Steve stood on the cliff tops looking out over the choppy waters below and stared out towards the bank of cloud that obscured the horizon. Even on a clear day, it would be impossible to see the coast of Breuckelen that curved North, the jagged spit of land that curled like a fishhook where Steve had been born and raised before his mother sent him off for a chance of a better life. But Red Hook was out there, just over the horizon, hopefully, spared the worst horrors of war. And, somewhere to the South, fighting to defend their lands and their freedom, was Bucky. 

Steve suited up for the opening joust of the tournament and smashed his way to victory against a local knight, four points to none. 

“Well fought, Lord Ipheion,” the King called as Steve trotted back to his end of the list. Steve slowed to pay his respects to Tony with a nod of his head. “As in Ridgewood, and many of my other tournaments, I hear. Will I be hosting the Champion’s Banquet in your honour again?” 

“There’s a long way to go before that, Your Grace.” Steve inclined his head again before spurring off towards Sam and Natasha who were waiting to help him dismount. The King flashed him a patronising smile and Steve was grateful he could let his visor drop without having to school his expression into something neutral. Steve hadn’t forgotten the rumours from Ridgewood, how Ironvhan had been secretly feeding Hydra weapons, and if the King knew about it or not, he certainly wasn’t sparing any effort in helping Breuckelen win the war. There was only so much civility Steve could fake. If he _did_ manage to win the tournament, Steve didn’t know how he’d manage to go a whole evening without saying something stupid and liable to land him in the stocks—or worse. 

It didn’t help that Rumlow was prowling around the tournament, trying to provoke Steve at every turn, proudly bearing the Hydra badge of his coat of arms with no repercussions. He rode with a ferocity the likes of which Steve had never seen in a tournament before, unhorsing _three_ of his opponents and causing serious injury in his path to the final. Steve watched it all, horrified, as the crowds cheered for him fluttering their ‘Crossbones’ banners and lapping up the violence. 

“It’s sickening,” Steve commented.

“That’s the sport.” Natasha shrugged. 

Steve carved himself a less vicious route through his rounds and the morning of the Grand Finale dawned bright and clear with the exciting spectacle of Ipheion vs. Rumlow. The atmosphere was tense. Whilst Steve hadn’t lost a joust to Rumlow yet, Rumlow’s desperation was clear for everyone to see. It was going to be a dirty match and many thought the clean-fighting, noble Lord Ipheion didn’t stand a chance. 

Steve was quietly nervous himself, though he tried not to let it show, grinning and waving to the crowds as he and Devil trotted slowly to the tournament grounds. As he’d feared, Rumlow was waiting for him by the gates, cutting an imposing figure in his dark armour, smeared with the white cross across his breastplate. 

“You may have won them over, Ipheion,” Rumlow spat at Steve as he approached—blocking the entrance and forcing Steve to listen to his vitriol. “But you don’t fool me. I know you're no true knight.”

Steve tried hard not to react, but he couldn’t help himself flinch as an icy worry surged in his gut. The worst person to discover his secret would be Rumlow.

“I’ve watched you. How you act with your squires. You shun your peers and live like you’re no better than a peasant. It’s a _disgrace_ ,” Rumlow growled. “You don’t deserve your title. You don’t deserve any of this. And when I unhorse you—when you look up at me from the flat of your back—I’ll show everyone just how unworthy you are.” Rumlow spat on the floor beside Steve. “You will be weighed and measured, and found wanting,” he added with a sneer before he reined his horse off into the stadium.

Steve let Rumlow go unchallenged as relief flooded through him. Rumlow didn’t have a clue. 

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, worried as he handed Steve his lance. “What did Rumlow say?”

“Nothing worth hearing,” Steve assured Sam and hefted the lance into his grip. He locked his elbow close against his side and settled his shield to protect as much of his torso as he could, gripping Devil’s reigns tight and making sure he clamped his thighs tightly around the horse’s back; Rumlow could try his hardest, but Steve wasn’t about to let himself be unseated. “Hee-yah!” He spurred Devil on when the flag dropped, dipping his head to keep his eyes fixed on Rumlow’s approach. Steve aimed centrally, going for the easy point, and braced himself to receive a strong blow. 

Rumlow had clearly been practising since they’d last gone up against each other and the blow knocked Steve backward with such a violent impact that Steve was forced to drop his lance to save himself from overbalancing; it was skill alone that kept Steve from falling.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Steve muttered, breathless and tight-chested as he cantered back to Sam. “He’s not fucking around. Any pointers?”

“Stay on the horse?”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve deadpanned. He took the fresh lance and spurred Devil on for a second time, managing to land a hit this time as Rumlow struck another violent blow and almost knocked Steve from his saddle a second time. At least the score was two to one, he could still turn it around. 

“He leans back before he thrusts,” Nat offered as Steve and Devil plodded in a restless circle, re-grouping before they rode into the fray once more. “Strike early and aim low, you might get the upper hand.” Steve nodded and calmed his thoughts, stroking his hand soothingly across Devil’s withers before he gathered up the reins once more.

“You’ve got this,” Sam encouraged and gave Steve a sharp clap on his lower leg. “One more charge and you can retire a champion.”

Steve clenched his jaw in determination and listened to the thundering roar of the crowd. The nobles and common folk alike were clapping and stamping and hollering, even the King and his courtiers looked thrilled as Steve sucked a deep breath through his visor and charged into the last and final pass. 

Devil’s hooves pounded the earth, galloping like a racing heart, and Steve leant forwards in his saddle, thrusting out his lance early. Like Natasha predicted, Steve caught Rumlow low in the chest just as he was reared back for a forceful blow. Steve’s lance shattered and Rumlow rocked backward in surprise. If he’d conceded then, the match would have been a draw—they could have split the prize between them, or jousted again for a fourth pass, depending on the whim of the King—but Rumlow was nothing if not arrogant and despite being off-balance he still went for a blow. He grappled with his unwieldy lance and tried to bring it round to strike against Steve’s helmet, but he lost control. The weight of the weapon dragged him down, sending him falling to the side and he slipped from his saddle. Rumlow tangled in the reins, prevented from falling completely and being dragged through the mud—but it didn’t matter; a slip like that handed Steve three points and the victory. 

Rumlow didn’t stick around, he wrestled himself back into the saddle and charged cleanly through the gates of the tournament grounds, disappearing from view as his squires scrambled to follow. Steve threw his helmet off and watched him flee, grinning as he did. 

“Good riddance!” he shouted in Rumlow’s wake, although his words were lost in the din of cheers that had erupted from the crowd. 

Steve was still grinning when he accepted the tournament prize from the King—his delight at having bested Rumlow a fifth and final time outweighing any anger he felt for the monarch. 

The anger returned later though when Steve stood stoically on the dais in the castle’s great ballroom as he was introduced not only as tournament champion but, with six tournaments under his belt, as the champion of the season. Natasha had forced him into a deep blue tunic inlaid with golden embroidery that swirled in intricate patterns around the gleaming golden buttons that ran down the front; and for once his hair had been combed neatly back. He hadn’t trimmed it all season and it was long enough now to curl behind his ears, flicking out at the ends, though strands kept threatening to fall free and Steve had to stop himself from repeatedly tucking them back. Despite his finery, Steve still felt nothing like a real lord, although when Tony dragged him over to speak to a cluster of courtiers stood beneath a great chandelier Steve felt his mouth narrow in a surly frown which he supposed might help him look more aloof and more noble than he felt. 

Unfortunately, his frown also caught the King’s attention and Tony called him out on it as they walked. 

“Why the long face, Ipheion? Is this banquet not up to your liking? I spared no expense, you know.”

“I know, Your Majesty. I can tell.” Steve ground his teeth; _that was the problem_. 

“Then I command you to tell me what’s wrong,” Tony said flippantly. “You can’t refuse a direct command from your king.”

_You’re not my King_ , Steve thought, but managed not to voice that out loud. 

“It’s just that,” Steve faltered, aware of many pairs of ears no doubt listening in closely around them. But he’d never been very good at keeping his thoughts or feelings to himself, especially not when it was a cause he cared about. “I think this expense might have been spent better elsewhere.”

“Really.” Tony’s voice dropped low and dangerous, and Steve belated remembered he was talking to the King of a powerful country. “Where, precisely, you would have it spent?”

It was too late to back out now, Steve puffed out his chest and summoned up every ounce of courage he possessed. “On Breuckelen’s war effort, in assisting their defence.”

“Their defence?” Tony spluttered, sounding surprised and Steve tensed; fearing the rumours of Ironvahn’s allegiance were true. “Then you have not heard?”

Steve’s brows pulled taut in confusion. 

“Of course, you wouldn’t have; the news only came in an hour ago. The war’s over.”

“Over?” Steve repeated, hovering on tenterhooks, did that mean victory or defeat? 

“Prince James is marching home in victory; he doesn’t need any help from me.” Tony clapped Steve on the shoulder and dragged him over the courtiers, shouting a loud, “Let’s hear it for our champion!” as they went. 

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The rest of the banquet passed in a dizzy blur for Steve; he may have danced, he may have eaten, he probably spoke to people, but since he’d heard of Breuckelen’s victory, Steve’s thoughts were completely occupied with Bucky, and his ma, and the prospect of returning home as soon as he could. 

“We are the champions!” Sam was singing loudly when Steve finally made his way back from the banquet. He was dancing drunkenly around their fire, with a large group of people Steve vaguely recognised meeting at different tournaments throughout the season, whilst Natasha sat to the side in one of their folding chairs, sipping from a skin of wine. Steve managed to slip around the edge of the dancing and make his way to her, gratefully accepting the wineskin and taking a long drink. 

“Have you heard?” he asked as he handed it back. “That the war’s over?”

“We just found out.” She smiled up at him, lit by a golden glow of the fire that made her red hair shine like polished copper. 

“I hope to god that means they’re okay.” 

“I’m sure they are. There’s talk of a tournament,” she added, offering him another drink which Steve declined with a shake of his head. It might have been the crash from a day fuelled by adrenaline, or the rapid fluctuating between fear and relief, but Steve already felt woozy. Maybe he was just exhausted.

“Another one?” Hadn’t he just won the season? Ironvhan wouldn’t be hosting any more tournaments until the following year, save some special events to mark feast days during the winter months. 

“In Breuckelen, to celebrate their victory,” Natasha explained. “I expect Prince James would welcome your participation—and I know Bucky’s bound to be there.”

Steve’s face brightened into a reflexive smile at the mention of Bucky’s name. 

“I suppose we could make one last stop before home,” Steve allowed. Whilst he longed to return home and see his ma, he was desperate to see Bucky again. And now that the tournament calendar was over, there was nothing stopping him from telling Bucky the truth. Maybe he’d even be able to take Bucky back home to Red Hook with him where they might be able to start the next chapter of their lives together. 

Steve tried not to get ahead of himself, it was a dizzying thought and one with only a slim chance of coming true, but then again, he’d always been something of a dreamer. 

“Good. I told Sam you’d be onboard.” Natasha smiled and offered Steve the wineskin again. This time he accepted and took a deep drink, feeling the wine spread warmth throughout his chest.

“Steve!” Sam barrelled towards them, definitely drunk, and definitely excited. “Come dance with us.” He gave Steve no choice—grabbing him by both hands and spinning him around the fire as the group kicked and twirled in an approximation of a ‘carole’, continuing to sing as they did;

_We are the champions, my friends, and we'll keep on fighting 'til the end. We are the champions, we are the champions. No time for losers, 'cause we are the champions of the world._

They danced long into the night, long after the fire had burned out and they were left with only the light from the stars and the new crescent moon that shone like a symbol of hope for the future. 


	12. Prince James

They travelled along the coastline for most of the journey back to Breuckelen, following the rocky cliffs and drinking in the sea air, until they reached Seaport and spared a few coins for a ferry to take them the rest of the journey across the bay.

The crossing was slow, but it let the horses rest and knocked a few days off their journey that skirting around the coast of the bay would require. Thankfully the horses were complacent to stand blinkered and tethered to the side of the barge with a basket of hay within reach. Devil hadn’t even broken stride when Steve had led him upon to the deck, and whilst Figaro had taken a little more persuading, Sam had managed to calm the animal enough to follow. Once they were situated, Devil’s calm acceptance and trust seemed to carry over to Figaro as well.

Steve stood in the prow of the barge as they cut through the calm waters, slipping through the early morning mist that shrouded the looming coastline of Breuckelen. He kept his eyes trained, eager to catch the first glimpse of it. Sam came to stand beside him, leaning forwards to cross his arms on the railing that encircled the barge at waist height, and after a while, Natasha crept up to join them.

“How long has it been since you’ve been back?” Natasha asked, staring through the slowly receding mist.

“Five long years,” Sam answered.

Steve kept his eyes on the horizon, watching a dark shape slowly reveal itself as the rolling hills of his home country.

“Steve?” Natasha prompted him for a reply.

“Twelve,” he managed to say with a dry throat. “Twelve years.”

They made land in Williamsburg, and as much as Steve ached to sweep North around the coast to Red Hook and his mother, the tournament was calling them South. It was another three-day walk from Williamsburg to the capital Crown Heights, but with both Devil and Figaro pulling the wagon, they were able to take turns riding some of the way. Steve had never spent much of his youth in that area of Breuckelen, it was rare he and his ma left their small town, and as soon as he was squired to Sir Phillips they’d departed for Ironvhan, but there was something about the air, the shapes of the trees, and the rolling hills that just screamed _home_.

Thankfully the war hadn’t reached this far inland, but all of the small towns and villages they passed through along their journey were celebrating the victory. Banners and bunting displaying the royal crest waved from every open window and strung between the streets, filling the skies with the three white wolves of Breuckelen against a field of royal blue and a chevron of gold. The sight sparked a feeling of warmth and joy in Steve’s chest, and he carried a giant smile on his face as they travelled.

Crown Heights was nestled in the mountains at the heart of Breuckelen. The sandstone castle stood proudly on a large plateau, surrounded by ornate public gardens, with the town sprawling across the slopes and valleys of the surrounding hills. They treated themselves to a night in a warm and welcoming tavern on the outskirts of the city the night before the tournament was due to start, drinking good mead and listening to an enthusiastic bard singing songs of Prince James’ heroic victory. When Steve flopped onto the soft goose feather mattress that evening, he was filled with a warm glow of contentment.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The following morning dawned bright and clear, with the sun casting everything in a dazzling golden glow as they made their final ascent to the castle at the heart of Breuckelen. People had poured into the city to celebrate peace and to witness the tournament. They lined the streets waving flags and streamers and calling out well wishes for the knights as they paraded into the city throughout the morning. For once, Steve agreed that they ought to offer Lord Ipheion a little pomp and circumstance, so they uncoupled Devil from the wagon, leaving that in the care of Figaro, and dressed him in his barding. Steve even donned one of his finer tunics and brushed his hair back for the occasion.

It was dizzying, hearing so many people calling out for him, waving his coat of arms alongside the royal flag, cheering for Lord Ipheion in the same breath that they cheered for their country and their hard-won peace. Steve felt conflicted as they wound up the cobbled streets, passing under the miles and miles of blue and gold ribbons and being showered in petals and confetti. Steve longed for his ma to see him as he was then; resplendent, knightly, a far cry from the skinny boy she’d sent off into the care of Sir Phillips all those years ago. But at the same time, he felt unworthy of any of it; the knights who’d fought in the war deserved this kind of welcome, not a charlatan like him.

The tournament grounds had been erected in the gardens that surrounded the castle with the lists stretched under the castle walls and the meadow fields given over to the camping grounds. Steve had never visited the royal castle before, but he’d grown up hearing stories of its impressive architecture, and he recognised the gardens from Bucky’s stories of playing amongst them with his sisters as a child. He kept an eye out for Bucky as they mingled with the other knights and squires and set about pitching their tent, but there was no sight of him. Nor when they staked out a spot for Devil and Figaro in the stables, or even as Steve donned his armour and geared up ready for his first joust.

As the reigning Ironvhan Champion, Steve had been seeded first and he was opening the tournament against a young soldier who’d been knighted for his heroics during the war. Steve supposed that was meant to be a great honour for the young knight, but Steve didn’t really want to face him, let alone try and beat him; hadn’t the poor kid suffered enough?

“What if I just withdraw?” Steve asked as they led Devil from the stables, following behind the young knight who sat atop a dusty grey charger. He’d taken a red spider for his coat of arms, set against the royal Breuckelen blue, which was painted—a little slapdash—on a strong wooden shield which he clutched to his side. Steve had smiled when he’d seen the shield, a few knights had started using them again in recent tournaments, and the rumour mills had credited Lord Ipheion with re-starting the trend.

“If you withdraw? Then you’d be out.” Sam frowned up at him.

“But...” Steve faltered, trying to wrap his head around this tournament’s rules. An uneven number of knights had entered the joust, and with the prestige of the tournament luring so many well-known names, the rounds had been staggered to give most people a second chance even if they lost a round.

“You need at least one broken lance to progress, even if you lose,” Sam reminded him.

“Don’t underestimate him, Sir Peter’s faced worse enemies than you,” Natasha chipped in.

“But he’s just a kid!” Steve protested in a hissed whisper.

“A tough one.”

“It still doesn’t feel right.”

“We’ll see how you feel after the first pass.” Natasha just smirked. “I hear the kid’s strong.”

Any further protests from Steve died on his tongue as they entered the stadium, and were met with a wall of noise from the crowd. Upon spotting the knights, they began to stomp and clap in a now-familiar chant that made Steve’s heart race with excitement and brought a smile to his face. He knew then, he’d never be able to withdraw, but he could control the weight of his blows, and he would never be intentionally cruel to the kid.

Steve waved to the crowd and leapt up into his saddle. He tucked his helmet under his arm and clicked his tongue to gee Devil towards the royal box. It was Prince James who had orchestrated the tournament, and he sat beneath the royal canopy, swathed in a royal blue cloak with an ornate golden chain draped around his shoulders. As Steve approached, he saw curling brown hair, pulled back from his temples in a half-up style, with a discrete golden crown settled amongst the waves. The rest of his fell to his shoulders, framing a familiar handsome face, with the strong cheekbones and stormy blue eyes that had been haunting Steve’s dreams and memories for weeks. The face Steve had been counting down the days until he could kiss and caress once more.

Bucky.

Steve nearly fell off his horse in shock. Bucky had grown a beard in the time since they’d been apart, it clung to his strong jawline, trimmed neatly, regally, making his eyes and their bright silvery-blue look even brighter and more beautiful by comparison.

“Lord Ipheion!” Bucky—Prince James?—greeted him with that achingly familiar smile and smooth velvet voice. “I’m glad to welcome you to Breuckelen.”

Steve had no response. His heart galloped in his chest, skipping and rushing beats with abandon, feeling like it was trying to break free from his chest. He gaped, confused, elated and terrified all at once.

Devil whinnied softly, sensing Steve’s distress, and Bucky’s brows furrowed in response to whatever helpless expression Steve’s face had fallen into.

“Steve?” Bucky leant forwards in his royal throne—his _throne_ —to peer at Steve with concern. His tone was soft and gentle, just like it had been so many times with just the two of them in the glow of the firelight, or alone in Bucky’s tent, in the stables, in the clocktower. Steve held Bucky’s eyes for a moment whilst his mind reeled with the revelation that he’d been consorting with the Prince the whole time. His mind stuttered to a halt and he fled, urging Devil into action, kicking dust up dust in their wake, as they thundered to the end of the list.

Steve felt himself flush with embarrassed shame and stupidity as everything clicked into place; Bucky’s secrecy; the glaring absence of the knight he was meant to be serving; how he’d only appeared in towns where the Winter Soldier came to joust—Christ almighty, the injuries that mirrored those Steve had given the Winter Soldier; how he fled the moment the Winter Soldier’s identity had come to light. How had Steve been so blind, so oblivious, so stupid?

And to imagine, how close he’d been to telling Bucky the truth about who he was. Steve dread to think how that would have gone.

He began to hyperventilate, fighting for his breaths like he had as a child. He had to lean forwards and clasp both arms around Devil’s neck to stop himself from falling as his chest rose and fell uselessly, stuttering over breaths that gave him too much oxygen and not enough relief all at once.

“Steve?” He felt Sam rub a comforting hand along his thigh whilst Natasha steadied Devil with a firm grip on his halter.

“Bucky,” Steve gasped out, in between frantic huffs of breath. “James.”

“What?”

He screwed his eyes shut and tried to calm the panic that surged through him like a tidal wave. “Bucky—is—Prince—James,” he managed, sounding strangled as he fought to control his breathing.

“Holy shit. No way.”

Steve didn’t have the breath in him to argue. He just nodded towards the royal box, where the Prince was on his feet, leaning out from the royal box and peering at Steve with a concern that was evident despite the distance.

“Whatever this means—Steve, listen to me,” Sam called Steve’s attention back to him, and Steve let his eyes slip from Bucky’s worried figure and down to his friend. “Whatever this means, we’ll figure it out later, alright? Right now, you have to focus, this kid isn’t going to go easy on you. Don’t go and get injured. Not now. Not when you’re so close to home.”

“Home.” Steve latched on to the word and thought of Red Hook, of his ma, of the whole purpose of this endeavour. “Home,” he agreed. He could pull himself together for one last joust and then flee before Bucky—Prince James—could discover who he really was and break his heart.

But Natasha was right, the kid was strong, and Steve was still too dazed to put up much of a defence. Sir Peter’s first strike shattered against Steve’s visor with a sickening blow. It made him see spots for a second and left an ache pounding in his temple. Steve tried to rally himself for the second pass, but made the mistake of looking to the royal box and saw Bucky, gripping the edge of his throne with white knuckles. Steve didn’t stand a chance after that. Peter’s second hit caught Steve high on his chest plate, above his shield, in the juncture of his right shoulder. It splintered into a thousand pieces and Steve dropped his own unbroken lance, as pain flared down his limb.

“Steve!” Sam’s anxious voice filtered through Steve’s ringing ears. “You just need a hit to stay in the tournament. Just land one blow, come on you can do this,” he urged.

Steve wanted to crawl into bed and let himself blackout, but he accepted a fresh lance, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder as he gripped and kept his eyes firmly on his opponent, ignoring the royal box as they charged for the third and final pass. Steve’s lance broke against Peter’s chest just as Peter landed another powerful blow against Steve’s. Both lances exploded in a shower of splinters and Steve sagged in the saddle as Devil trotted back towards Sam. Steve slipped gratefully into Sam’s waiting arms and let himself be steered back towards their tent in a daze as Natasha took Devil off to the stables.

Sam peeled Steve out of his armour and guided him to sit down on the bed.

“Where’s your medicine kit?”

“Bottom of the chest.” Steve gestured vaguely, too stunned and too shocked to do much else. He used his left arm to haul his shirt off over his head and rubbed at his aching, burning shoulder, wriggling his fingers and wincing as pain flared with each movement.

Sam dug out of the small wooden box and Steve managed to direct him towards the little pots of creams he needed.

“I’ll get a fire going,” Sam told him, before ducking back out of the tent and leaving Steve to his swirling mess of thoughts.

How had he been so stupid not to realise who Bucky was? And so foolish for thinking they might be able to build a future together? Steve was under no illusion, Bucky might have been free to fool around with whoever he wanted under the guise of being a squire, but Prince James would never be able to choose Steve; even if he were a real knight, let alone nothing more than a charlatan.

The tent flap stirred and Steve glanced up, expecting Sam to have returned for the kettle and the willow bark, but instead, Steve found himself face to face with Bucky. He’d lost his cloak and his crown, but not the worried expression he’d worn during the joust.

“You’re hurt,” he said and crossed to Steve’s side in an instant, kneeling before him on the rug that was thrown across the floor.

“It’s nothing.” Steve insisted, nothing worth the Prince’s time anyway, but when he tried to move out of Bucky’s reach, Steve let out a gasp of pain that betrayed him.

“It’s _not_ , you need a surgeon. I’ll have one fetched immediately.”

“Don’t bother, please, it’s nothing.”

“How can you win this tournament with a busted shoulder, Steve?”

“Win?” Steve scoffed. “I don’t plan on winning.”

“Why ever not? You’re the best knight in the tournament—today’s little display aside.” Bucky twisted his mouth into a small smile. “I hope you’re not losing for my sake? I had rather hoped you would win this tournament. The champion gets to sit next to me at the banquet, I was looking forward to some good company for a change.” He gave Steve another smile, and Steve’s heart ached with the lie and the newly grown distance between them.

“I can’t,” Steve insisted, feeling crestfallen. “Bucky...I...” But what on earth was there to say? “You should leave.”

“I only just got here.”

“Isn’t there a tournament you’re supposed to be presiding over?”

“That can wait.” Bucky reached out towards him, but Steve shifted back, bracing his shoulder with his left arm and forcing himself not to wince this time.

“No.”

Bucky let his hand fall and rocked back on his knees looking hurt. “You’re angry with me,” Bucky guessed. “I should have told you sooner, I’m sorry. Surely you can understand why I couldn’t?”

Steve ground his teeth and looked away, annoyed with himself more than anything.

“I wanted to tell you, so many times,” Bucky whispered. He leant forwards, this time grasping Steve’s knee and it made guilt churn in his gut to see the Prince supplicating himself before Steve like this—him, a nobody.

Steve shook his head, failing to voice everything he needed to say. He wanted to come clean, but who knew how the Prince would react? Faking nobility like he had been doing for months now was a punishable offence and Steve couldn’t risk Sam or Natasha’s safety like that.

Bucky reeled back like Steve had slapped him in the face. “You loved Bucky, why is loving James any different? I thought I could count on you to be okay with this, you tilted even when you knew it was me.”

Steve’s heart clenched in his chest and all the air was sucked from his lungs.

“No, no, no.” Steve realised Bucky was reading his apprehension, his anger, all wrong. “That’s not it, I promise. I love you, Bucky. More than anything. I’ve missed you so much—I just...” He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say.

“It’s a shock.” Bucky nodded, but he looked relieved. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Steve wanted to cry. Instead, he reached out to cup Bucky’s face and let his thumb fall into the little divot on Bucky’s chin that was now obscured by the soft brush of beard.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Steve promised.

Bucky twisted to kiss Steve’s palm and clasped it between both of his hands. “Then, will you win this tournament for me?”

How could Steve possibly say no to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *surprised pikachu face* Who could ever have guessed that Bucky was Prince James???? 😉
> 
> And I love the royal coat of arms H designed for Bucky! It's got the Wakadna 'white wolf' motif and it reminds me of Bucky's Howling Commando uniform 😍 (apparently the official colours of Brooklyn and blue and gold, which makes me wonder if the costume department picked those colours for him in TFA on purpose?)


	13. Weighed & Measured

The truth weighed heavily on Steve’s heart. Every time he entered the lists for a joust and saw Bucky sitting in the royal box, every time Bucky cheered for him, Steve felt it twist in his gut. He ached to be honest, but he knew the truth would harm more than just himself and Steve couldn’t bear the thought of Sam or Natasha taking the fall with him.

Despite his lousy start to the tournament, Steve rose quickly through the rankings, winning his second match an astounding 6-0, followed by a 4-0 after he unhorsed the knight of the second pass. For his fourth-round match Steve found himself up against Fandral once again, and the Asgardian grinned at him delighted from the other end of the list. Steve won easily, but not before Fandral managed to get a good solid strike against Steve’s right shoulder. Steve felt the now persistent ache flare up into a burning pain, but he persevered to win the match, three lances to one, which meant he was once again through to the final.

“Good match!” Fandral grinned at him as they both led their horses back to the stables afterwards. “I’ll be rooting for you tomorrow.” He clapped Steve on the opposite shoulder to the one he’d struck, before leaving his horse in the capable hands of his squires. “My offer still stands,” he called back over his shoulder as he headed towards the castle. “Come test your mettle at the Asgardian winter games!”

Steve smiled back but made no promises. If all went well, he’d be wintering in Red Hook, with his ma in the house she’d always dreamed of.

“I’m nervous,” Steve admitted to Sam that night as they sat around the fire. It was just the two of them, with Natasha typically absent and Bucky and Clint both up at the castle where they rightfully belonged.

“Nervous of what?”

“Going home. What if my mother doesn’t recognise me?” Steve spoke to the fire rather than to Sam and pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders against the imagined chill of the night. It had been so long, Steve wasn’t even sure he knew the way. _‘Just follow your feet,’_ she’d told him the day he’d left. “What if she’s angry that I stayed away so long?”

“I’m pretty sure she’ll just be glad to see you’re alive,” Sam reasoned. “Besides, you’re Lord Ipheion, Tournament Champion. How can she not be impressed by that?”

“Not bad for a healer’s son from Red Hook.” Steve dipped his head and smiled.

“You’ve done her proud,” Sam assured him.

“Yeah.” Steve lifted his gaze up to the dark walls of the castle and stared at the narrow arrow-slit windows that were illuminated from candles within. Steve’s thoughts strayed to Bucky, as they often did. He wondered if any of those windows were his, and thought back to the tales Bucky had told him about playing near the palace as a child. Steve had hoped he might meet Bucky’s sisters one day and had been looking forward to the prospect of introducing Bucky to his ma. All of that was impossible now of course.

Win or lose tomorrow, Steve would stay for the banquet and then invent an excuse for leaving. It would hurt to say goodbye, Steve knew that, but Bucky must have known they could never truly be together. Even though it pained him, Steve had to believe another small lie would hurt less than the truth.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Steve slept fitfully, tossing and turning all night unable to find peace. It was a good job that the joust was being held in the early afternoon, after the finals of the archery and sword contests scheduled for the morning. He gave up trying to sleep at dawn and took a seat outside, watching the sunrise from behind the castle. Sam joined him a while later and they brewed some tea to accompany a breakfast of honey-sweetened oats. It should have been pleasant, but Steve couldn’t settle his nerves. At any moment, he felt like something was going to go wrong.

“Did Natasha return last night?” he asked. Whilst it was common for her to spend long tracts of time running her secret ‘errands’, she normally returned for meals, and she’d never missed breaking her fast with them.

“I don’t think so.” Sam frowned.

Steve hummed with a growing sense of dread, but it wasn’t until he was rinsing the cooking pots clean, and Clint came running towards their campsite, that he realised his fears were far from unfounded.

“What’s wrong?” Steve dropped the pots and stood up, quickly finding himself being hauled back into the tent along with a confused looking Sam.

“Natasha’s been arrested,” Clint said breathless, looking distraught.

“What?” Steve demanded as Sam shouted an outraged, “ _Why?!_ ”

“They’re saying she’s an assassin, sent by Hydra to kill Bucky.”

“That’s absurd!” Steve protested. “Why the hell would they think that?”

“They’re coming to arrest you too,” Clint warned. “A dozen royal guards. They think you’re in league.”

Steve’s mind stuttered to a halt. “What? Bucky—”

“Not on his orders. His father’s. Bucky sent me here to warn you. You have to run, Steve. You have to flee, immediately.”

“What about Natasha?”

“I’ll worry about that later—you don’t have time, you have to get out of here.”

“No, I can’t leave her, I won’t!” Steve protested. “C’mon, Clint, you know she’s not an assassin. Sent to _kill Bucky_? She was alone with him a dozen times, so was I—how can they think..?” Steve shook his head, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to come up with a game plan, but nothing made sense.

“I know, I know.” Clint shook his head. He was still gripping Steve by the arms, he still looked desperate, and Steve saw it then, the love Clint bore for Natasha—another thing that had apparently slipped his gaze all summer. How on earth could he have been so blind?

“Bucky will believe us, Clint. If we go to him—I’ll plead for Natasha, we’ll get her set free.”

“You can’t, Steve. They know.”

“Know what?” It was Sam who spoke, Steve’s voice had jammed somewhere in his throat.

“They asked for your patents,” Clint said in a hushed whisper, and Steve’s lie came crumbling down around his ears. “That’s the basis of the accusation,” Clint explained, shaking his head. “That you pretended to be a knight to gain access to the tournament. To get close to Prince James.”

“What?!” Steve spluttered, aghast.

“Why do they think that?” Sam had the sense to ask.

“Rumlow went to the King. I don’t know how he found out, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

Steve’s heart leapt into his mouth. Rumlow, or one of his cronies, must have overheard him and Sam talking the night before. He felt sick.

“I never planned to hurt Bucky,” Steve protested as panic flared through him. “You have to believe me, Clint. Bucky has to believe me, that isn’t true. That was never the plan—that was never,” Steve faltered, gasping for breath as he hastened to explain himself. “I only wanted to joust. To change my stars—I never, ever intended any harm to Bucky. I had no idea—”

“I know,” Clint offered, but it wasn’t enough. Steve couldn’t leave now, not without coming clean to Bucky, he couldn’t leave with that lie, with that suspicion between them.

“Why would the King believe a snake like Rumlow. He’s a knight of _Hydra,_ ” Sam growled.

“And Steve’s no knight at all,” Clint interjected.

“I’ll go to Bucky. I’ll tell him everything,” Steve decided.

“I told you, Bucky can’t do anything! It’s out of his hands.” Clint shouted. “You have to leave, you have to run. Now.”

“I can’t!” Steve shouted back.

“You have to!” Sam urged. “Run, now. If you leave immediately, you can get away. Clint and I will hold off the guards for as long as we can.”

“I won’t run.” How could he? How could he abandon Bucky and Natasha like that?

“Steve—if you stay, if they discover the forged patents...you’ll be imprisoned, or worse,” Sam warned.

“I know.” Steve pulled himself from Clint’s grip and walked to Sam to pull him into a tight hug. “You can go before it’s too late. I won’t drag you down with me.”

But Sam shook his head. “We started this together, and that’s how we’ll finish it.” He clapped Steve on the arm before stepping back.

“It was fun while it lasted?” Steve offered with a weak smile.

“God love you, Steve.”

“I know, no one else will,” Steve returned. He gave Sam another rib crushing hug before he straightened himself out, smoothing imaginary creases from his tunic and running a hand through his hair. “Where are these guards, then?”

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Rather than waiting for the guards to storm the campsite and make a scene, Steve turned himself in at the castle gates. The royal guards descended upon him with an unnecessary force, bending his arms behind his back and frogmarching him inside. Steve could feel Sam’s gaze burning into the back of his neck, but he couldn’t even twist his head to give his old friend a reassuring smile, the guards kept his head forced forwards and staring at his feet. Steve could only hope the Bucky that he had known and loved these past few months could find it in his heart to forgive Steve for his lie.

But Steve wasn’t marched before the Prince or the King; instead, he found himself thrown in the dungeon, stripped down to his underthings and bound to a heavy plank of wood placed across his shoulders. There was a grate overhead that let weak sunlight filter through the castle above, illuminating a small patch of floor, but the corners of the dank cell were plunged into deep darkness by comparison. Steve dared not find out what sort of rats or mould might cling to the walls, so he knelt in the center of the patch of light, trying to keep his balance, trying to ignore the ache that set into his arms, and elbows and his already sore shoulder. He hoped Natasha hadn’t been subjected to this—or worse—somewhere else in the castle, and cursed the fact that he hadn’t even been able to explain himself. The guards that had thrown him in here didn’t want to hear any of it, Steve didn’t even know if Bucky had been told of his arrest. Or if it would matter if he had. What would Bucky think of him now?

Steve let his head hang and pressed his eyes shut against the thoughts and regrets that swirled in a ceasing loop through his mind. If only they’d gone straight home rather than pushing his luck in one more tournament. If only he’d come clean and told the Bucky truth much sooner. If only, if only, if only...Steve knew thinking like that wasn’t helpful, so he tried to console himself with brighter thoughts; like the knowledge that Sam at least was safe, and the hope that he might take Steve’s share of their winnings back to his mother. If he was doomed to rot in this dungeon he could at least console himself with that.

Steve was left there for hours, watching the light shift slowly across the floor and the ache worsen in his arms. He kept his head down and let his eyes drift shut, chasing sleep in an attempt to make the time pass quicker. When he heard the heavy thud of footsteps and the jangling of keys, Steve glanced up, hoping he might, at last, be questioned, or maybe even set free. He certainly didn’t think things could get any worse—but with the way his luck had turned, Steve should have expected nothing less.

“Well, well.” Rumlow waved a torch in front of Steve’s face, close enough for the heat to make him flinch back. He sneered.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve demanded.

“I was invited, unlike you. I am a knight, a noble. Unlike you, I have every right to be here.”

“You’re a knight of _Hydra_ ,” Steve spat back. Perhaps he shouldn’t, given his position, but he didn’t have anything else to lose. “An enemy of Breuckelen.”

Rumlow just laughed in his face. “Didn’t you hear? We signed a peace treaty. The King can’t send me away without risking another war.”

“Doesn’t he know you were disgraced?”

Rumlow’s sneer turned even more sour. “Disgraced?” He snarled at Steve. “Bold of you to mention that—seeing as it was _you_ cost me everything!”

“Me?”

Rumlow snarled again and punched Steve in the gut, knocking the air from him. Steve stumbled but Rumlow caught him before he fell to the floor—if only so he could hiss in Steve’s ear.

“You foiled my plans at every turn.” He pushed Steve back, sending him staggering against the wall. Steve lost his balance and sunk to his knees, breathing in short, sharp bursts.

“But look at you now. I told you I’d have my revenge. ‘ _Lord Ipheion_.’” Rumlow spat at Steve’s feet. “I knew you were no knight. Now you’ll pay the price for your treachery. You have been weighed, you have been measured, and you have been found wanting. Did you think you could beat me and get away with it?”

Rumlow kicked him once more for good measure before stalking from the cell and letting the door close with a final sound clang behind him.

Steve gave up caring about the state of the floor and fell forwards, trying to calm his breathing as his forehead lay against the cold stone. His thoughts were jumbled and foggy through his pain, but even as he tried to un-muddle them—nothing of what Rumlow had said made any sense. What plans? And how on earth had Steve managed to foil them?

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

It felt like another age before Steve’s cell was opened again and he was hauled to his feet. The guards removed the bar and Steve felt blood rush back into his arms as they were lowered behind his back, only to have them bound at the wrists whilst the stabbing pains of thousands of pins and needles pricked from his fingers to his shoulders.

Steve didn’t complain, he’d resigned himself to his fate by then—they’d take him to the stocks to let the townsfolk humiliate him, whilst the King decided what lasting punishment to dole out. Steve was never going to get the chance to explain himself to Bucky or try to rescue Natasha.

Only, instead of being marched out to the courtyard and the stockade, Steve found was dragged into the throne room instead.

Under any other circumstances, Steve would have admired the architecture of the grand room, the vaulted ceiling, and frescoes painted into archways around narrow arrow-slit windows that lined the walls, or the stepped dais and beautifully carved wooden thrones that stood proudly side by side. As it was, Steve was forced to his knees at the base of the steps. One of the guards forced his head downwards and Steve wasn’t given the chance to admire any of it. He hadn’t even got a good look at the figure sitting on the throne.

“Untie him,” Bucky commanded and relief washed through Steve at the sound of his voice.

A guard cut through the bonds at Steve’s wrists and Steve instantly hauled them into his lap, rubbing circulation back into his hands. He stayed kneeling but risked a glance up at Bucky to try and figure out what he was thinking. Bucky was dressed just as ornately as he had been every other day of the tournament, in a richly embroidered tunic of red and silver this time, with a silver circlet set with rubies nestled amongst his hair. He looked hurt, the expression on his face was heartbreaking, and Steve noticed with a jolt that his patents were spread out on a table beside the throne, his _forged patents_ , there was no mistaking the source of Bucky’s pain.

“Bucky-Prince James,” Steve faltered, rushing to explain himself and beg for forgiveness. “I’m sorry I lied to you, I never should have pretended to be someone I’m not. I promise you, I meant no harm, I just wanted the chance to compete, to earn some money to take home. I never intended for the lie to get so out of hand, and I never, ever intended to hurt you. I’m no assassin, neither is Natasha, you have to believe me. You know she can’t be—how many times was she alone with you, Buck-Prince James—please, you have to believe me. Do what you want with me, punish me however you see fit, but please let her go,” he pleaded, staring up into Bucky’s eyes as he spoke. Steve felt a lump lodge in his throat, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but Bucky’s expression stayed guarded. Steve struggled to hold back a sob.

There were guards listening in to his every word and perhaps it should have embarrassed Steve to be pleading like he was, but he didn’t care. His only concern was for Bucky to know the truth and for Natasha to be safe.

“I should have told you the moment we met. I wanted to. I hated keeping the truth from you, Bucky. I thought you were a squire, like myself, I thought it wouldn’t matter. Please believe I never wanted to lie, I was scared of incriminating Sam and Natasha. But I do love you. That was never a lie. If you don’t believe anything else, please believe that. I love you.” Steve sobbed, dropping his gaze and curling in himself as he waited for judgement. “I love you. I always will.”

“ _Steve,_ ” Bucky started, his tone sounded almost tender, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to look up. “I know Natasha’s not an assassin,” he said softly.

Steve stilled, confused. He did risk a glance up this time and found Bucky still looking pained, but his mouth pushed into half a smile.

“What?” Steve sniffed.

“I know she’s not an assassin. Because—”

“She works for me.” A tall, imposing figure stepped out of the shadows from beside the throne. Dark skinned with a black eyepatch, he was dressed in dark armour with a black cloak draped around his shoulders and secured with a silver pin bearing an eagle’s wings, the mark of Breuckelen’s Master of Spies. A man Steve had only heard rumours of; Nick Fury. A shadowy, sinister character purported to have spies at every corner.

Steve glanced between the man and Bucky, hopelessly confused. Natasha _was_ a spy?

“Leave us,” Bucky called out to the guards and all at once they retreated from the throne room, leaving the three of them alone. Steve stayed slumped on his knees, his head was foggy from crying and every ache and pain he’d suffered in the last few months seemed to be weighing him down. He wasn’t sure if he could stand even if he wanted. Add his confusion into the mix, and Steve was barely capable of blinking up at Bucky.

“I sent Agent Romanoff undercover to try and foil a suspected assassination attempt spearheaded by Rumlow,” Fury explained.

_Rumlow_. Gears churned in Steve’s head and his mind flashed back to when he’d ‘rescued’ Natasha at the start of this whole endeavour, how angry she’d been with him then.

“Oh god,” Steve exhaled, feeling guilt rush through him once again. “I messed that up too.” No wonder she’d then been so keen to stick around once Steve had befriended Bucky. “She was under orders to protect you?” he asked Bucky.

Bucky nodded. “Somehow Rumlow figured out I was the Winter Soldier long before anyone else did,” Bucky added for clarity. “Fury thinks he wanted to try and kill me during the joust. But he never got the chance, thanks to you.”

Steve’s brows knitted together in confusion.

“You kept beating either him or me,” Bucky laughed. “We never once crossed lances—certainly not before the war began. I think he was under orders to take me out ahead of their invasion, to try and cripple our defence.”

It almost made sense. But if that was the case, if Fury _knew_ about Rumlow then...“Why is he here?”

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.” Fury winked at Steve. “Where better to keep a close eye on him than right here in the castle? If he tries anything else we’ll finally have the proof we need to arrest him.”

“And Natasha? Why was she arrested?”

Bucky shot an annoyed look at Fury. “Because Fury didn’t see fit to trust anyone with the details of his plan. Not even with my father, or with me.”

Fury blinked, unaffected. “Nobody spills the secrets, because nobody knows them all,” he said.

“Except you.” Bucky’s mouth twisted into an expression that Steve’s tired mind couldn’t decipher. He sank back on his heels and stared between the Prince and the Master of spies, trying to make sense of it all, and wondering what any of that might mean for him.

Fury shared a few hushed words with Bucky that were clearly not meant to Steve’s ears and Bucky nodded. That apparently settled the matter, whatever matter than might be, because after giving the slightest indication of a bow, Fury swept from the room; swishing his cloak in his wake and vanishing almost as quickly as he’d appeared.

Steve was left alone with Bucky, staring up at him on his throne, feeling more useless and hopeless than ever. He’d only wanted a better life for himself, but look where it had landed him. If not for sheer dumb luck in the lists, he might have gotten the Prince of Breuckelen killed for his efforts. So much for trying to change his stars.

“I am so sorry, for getting in the way, for messing everything up. I’m sorry I lied to you—”

“Stop apologising,” Bucky cut him off. “Didn’t you listen? I just said you saved my life. Thanks to you, Rumlow never got a chance to get close to me.”

“I still lied to you,” Steve insisted. “I still wronged you.”

Bucky laughed this time. He stood up from his throne and climbed down the stairs. He let his hand rest briefly on Steve’s shoulder before hauling Steve to his feet and pulling in him for a hug.

“I knew you were no knight from the moment we met.” Bucky pulling back to shake his head at Steve with a fond smile. “Grooming your own horse? The way you stammered before a squire?”

Steve flushed with embarrassment, had it really been that obvious?

“I don’t care about that Steve. I care that you didn’t run. Why do you think I send Clint to warn you?” he admonished, straightening Steve’s dirty and worn shirt over his shoulders.

Steve flinched as Bucky brushed over his injured arm and that pained, heartbroken expression crossed Bucky’s face once more. Steve began to suspect that maybe he’d been reading that expression all wrong.

“What did they do to you, Steve? Why did you let yourself get arrested?” Bucky asked as he gripped Steve’s forearms and looked pleadingly up at Steve’s face. “You’re too noble-hearted for your own good. Goddammit, Steve. I love you, but you’re so stubborn!”

Steve shook his head feeling the weight of Bucky’s words. “You can’t love me. You’re the Prince, I’m no one. Steven Rogers. Just the son of a healer from Red Hook, I can’t offer you anything.” Steve protested, feeling tears prick at his eyes once more. Even if Bucky wasn’t going to punish him for lying, there was still no future for them.

“Steve.” Bucky’s tone was infinitely tender. He pulled Steve back in for a hug, holding them both tightly together until all of Steve’s fears and worries broke through the damn he’d tried to build up to hold them back. He let out a sob and clutched at Bucky’s royal cloak, crying quietly into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Steve, you offered me love when you knew me only as a stable boy.” Bucky pulled back to stare into Steve’s eyes. He wiped the tears from Steve’s cheeks with the pad of his thumb and smiled with such a loving expression that it made Steve’s heart physically ache.

“You offered me courage and equal footing when we met in the lists, if you gave me nothing else that would be enough,” Bucky said. “But you make me happy, you make me laugh. You give me more than I ever thought I deserved. You came here today, fully expecting imprisonment, to stand up for one of your friends. If I knew nothing else about you, that would tell me all I needed to know.”

Steve didn’t understand what Bucky was saying.

“I don’t...” he stuttered, gripping Bucky’s forearms and searching his face. “What are you saying?”

“I watched you in Astoria, you know. Your very first joust. You let the knight withdraw with dignity. You tilt when you should withdraw, and you withdraw when you should tilt. You have more valour, more courage than most knights can hope to achieve.” Bucky smiled. “Kneel.”

“What?”

“Steve, for once in your life, stop being so stubborn.” Bucky laughed. “Kneel.”

Steve dropped, ungainly, to his knees and stared up at Bucky in confusion. Smiling wider than Steve ever thought he’d seen Bucky smile before, Bucky took a step back and drew his sword.

“Stop looking so scared, this isn’t an execution,” Bucky laughed.

Steve’s frown deepened and he opened his mouth to ask what the hell _was_ happening then, when Bucky placed the flat of the blade gently on Steve’s shoulder.

“I dub thee, Sir Steven Rogers, a Knight of Breuckelen.” Bucky lifted the sword and tapped it against Steve’s other shoulder, grinning down on him the whole time.

**Image** : Prince Bucky knighting Steve | **art by** : histoires_eternelles

Steve glanced up, staring up at Bucky through his lashes. He didn’t have words, his mouth hung slack and his eyes went wide.

“Arise, Sir Steven.” Bucky grinned and held out a hand to help Steve to his feet, and then to haul him into for a kiss. Steve was too shocked to kiss back at first and Bucky laughed against his open mouth before Steve recovered himself and melted into Bucky’s embrace, kissing back like his life depended on it.

“I’m not worthy—”

“Yes, you are.” Bucky cut him off with another kiss, so tender and loving it made Steve feel like the little ball of warmth which had been growing steadily in his chest since he’d first met Bucky in the stables all those months ago, was going to burst right out of his chest in streams of golden light.

He didn’t know what the future could possibly hold for the pair of them. Even a knight was still not a match for the crown-Prince, but there were no longer any lies between them, and the truth hadn’t been the devastating blow Steve had feared it would be. Bucky loved him, and that was more than enough for now.

“How’s your shoulder?” Bucky asked, breaking away and rubbing a soothing hand up Steve’s forearm.

“It’s fine.”

“Can you joust?”

“I—probably?”

“Then, Sir Steven,” Bucky looked just as delighted by Steve’s new title as he was, “don’t you have a tournament to win?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How lovely is that art! 😍😍😍


	14. Sir Steven Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edited to include some mroe wonderful art from histoires_eternelles*

“Steve!” Sam pounced upon Steve the moment the castle gates were lifted and Steve was ushered outside, escorted by an honour guard this time. It looked like Sam had spent all morning fretting and pacing and Steve’s heart went out to him, bursting with gratitude. “Thank god you’re okay.”

“More than,” Steve grinned. “Where’s Natasha?”

“She’s fine. She came back about an hour after you were arrested and explained the whole thing. Can you believe she’s a _spy_?”

“To be honest,” Steve laughed, “that’s the one thing I do believe.”

“She’s in the stables, prepping Devil—I hear there’s to be a joust after all?”

“Yeah, there is.”

Sam helped Steve don all of his armour, which was still a little dented and misshapen following the joust with Fandral the previous day. Sam had clearly been too preoccupied with Steve’s arrest to re-shape it that morning like he’d planned but Steve couldn’t begrudge him for that. The armour would be fine. Steve was walking on air, brimming over with invincibility and pride; he felt like he didn’t even need armour to protect him.

“Who am I facing?” Steve asked as they walked towards the tournament grounds where Natasha and Devil would be waiting.

“Rumlow beat Sir Peter yesterday. So, it's a re-match of Hunter’s Point, winner takes all.”

“Rumlow?” Steve ground his teeth. After everything Fury suspected, how the hell was he still allowed to compete? “That cockroach.” Steve’s fist twitched at his side as his ribs ached with the memory of their last encounter. At least Steve would be afforded some revenge. “He doesn’t know when to quit.”

The stadium erupted into a huge roaring cheer when Steve made his entrance, waving proudly to spectators in all levels of the stands. When the herald introduced him as ‘Sir Steven Rogers!’ there was a murmur of gossip that rippled through the crowd like wildfire, but it soon crescendoed back to cheering encouragements that sounded even more jubilant than before.

“Rogers! Rogers! Rogers!” Steve heard his name chanted and his heart soared. He leapt up into the saddle and accepted a lance off Natasha who grinned broadly up at him.

“You knew this whole time, huh?” he asked her.

“We’ll talk later, Rogers. Time to show this lowlife what makes a real knight.”

Steve grinned back and glanced up at the royal box, spotting Bucky beaming from his throne. Steve dropped his visor and focused on controlling his breathing, willing away the aches and pains and zeroing in on Rumlow.

Rumlow’s visor was already down and his horse was hoofing at the ground, Steve imagined he could hear the huffs of annoyance emanating from them both. Rumlow looked furious and Steve knew he was going to strike hard. Steve breathed in deep behind his visor and braced himself as the flag dropped and Devil charged into motion.

The roar of the crowd spurred Steve on and gave him the strength strike, low and hard. Rumlow rocked back, but not before his own lance jabbed against the crook of Steve’s already weakened shoulder. It splintered into a thousand pieces and Steve felt the hot, burning pain as something pierced him, deep and hard, ripping through metal, skin, and muscle alike.

Steve gasped. He dropped his lance as his right arm flopped uselessly at his side, on fire with pain that radiated from his shoulder.

“Oh god,” Sam gasped as Devil trotted back to Steve’s end of the list. “I’ll get the surgeon.” Sam sounded anxious and the crowd had gone quiet, trading hushed whispers as they watched to see if Steve would forfeit.

Steve groaned as he used his left hand to tug off his helmet and stared down at the source of pain, finally noticing a giant shard lodged at the juncture of his right shoulder and his chest. He tried to blot out the pain and tried to focus. There was no way he was letting Rumlow win without a fight.

“Sam, you’re the surgeon,” Steve flinched as he spoke. “Come on, pull it out,” he instructed.

Sam hesitated, but one look at Steve’s face and the determined set of his jaw was enough to dispel Sam’s arguments..

“Brace yourself,” Sam warned before he pulled the shard free, revealing the spiked point of a lance that had been buried deep in Steve’s shoulder.

“He tipped it,” Natasha muttered as she examined the point. It was blood-stained but mercifully still intact. “Dirty son a devil, he _tipped the lance!_ ”

“He’ll pay for that.” Sam spat. “C’mon, Steve. You can still take him.”

Sam passed Steve back his helmet and Steve struggled to fit it one-handed over his head. His right arm screamed with pain whenever he tried to move it, but he breathed through the pain and accepted the lance. Somehow he managed to keep his balance as Devil galloped towards Rumlow for the second pass, but they hit a particularly bumpy patch of ground and Steve’s shoulder flared with pain. He dropped the lance before he could aim and Rumlow landed a sickening blow right in the chest of Steve’s chest. The lance dented his breastplate and Steve gasped as the breath was knocked out of him.

“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” he gasped, as Devil slowed to a halt before Sam.

“You need more padding.”

“No, take it off,” Steve insisted. Sam gave him a perplexed look. “I can’t breathe with it on.” Steve tried to explain, gasping for breath with lungs that couldn’t inflate beneath the crumpled weight of his armour.

Sharing worried glances with Natasha, Sam helped Steve shrug off his breastplate, leaving him in just the homespun shirt he wore beneath it. Blood oozed from the wound in his shoulder, blooming across the coarse linen.

“Steve...” Sam sounded worried, but Steve brushed off his concerns. He wasn’t backing down.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got him on the ropes,” Steve insisted.

“It’s two lances to none, you need to unhorse him to win.”

“Or kill him,” Natasha added with a dark smile.

Steve managed a weak smile in return. “Lance?”

Sam dutifully passed it up, but Steve could barely grip and the lance slipped instantly. He cursed with an angry exhale. “Fuck, I can barely grip it.” Steve rested his injured arm on his thigh and clenched his fingers feeling the burn in his shoulder as he did.

He glanced up at the royal box, to Bucky and Clint who looked equally concerned. Bucky was on his feet, hands gripped white-knuckled around the low wooden balustrade that bordered the royal box. Steve forced himself to look away and scanned the crowd, who were still chanting and cheering for him. Finally, he let his gaze settle on Rumlow. He’d lifted his visor and was sneering at Steve. That settled it, Steve could never let someone like Rumlow win.

“Lash it to my arm,” he instructed.

“Steve...” Sam shook his head. “That’s not a good idea—”

“Sam. Lash it to my arm.” There was no way Steve was going to withdraw. He refused to let Rumlow get the better of him.

Sam looked reluctant and he kept muttering under his breath about how stupid it was, but he used the buckles off Steve’s discarded armour to strap the lance tightly to Steve’s forearm. Steve couldn’t grip it, but he could still aim, and he still had his shield to protect his exposed torso from the worst of what Rumlow could send his way.

“Godspeed, Steve,” Sam wished him, giving Steve a grave pat on his leg.

Steve sucked in a breath and exhaled, feeling surprisingly calm in the face of almost certain injury. He stared Rumlow down and focused all of his anger and his rage.

“Go on, Steve!” The roar from the crowd was little more than a wall of noise, but somehow Bucky’s voice cut through the rest. Steve glanced back to the royal box and saw Bucky with his hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice. Steve’s heart swelled and grinned. He could do this, and no matter what happened he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

The flag dropped, Devil reared back to whinny in determination, and then they were off, thundering down the list. Steve focused intently on Rumlow, channelling all of the anger to the blunted point of his lance. He pulled back and threw all of his weight behind a powerful blow that struck Rumlow just as he’d leaned back to aim his own. Steve followed through with a sharp punching motion and the lance ruptured in a burst of broken wood. Rumlow was knocked backward, falling clean off his horse to land on his back in the mud.

If the crowd had been loud before, it was nothing to the explosion of noise that thundered throughout the stadium.

“YES!” Steve shouted.

“We won!” Sam sounded dazed.

Steve dismounted from Devil without grace as Sam hurried to unfasten the lance and free Steve’s injured arm. He cradled it across his stomach as Natasha pulled him into a hug and then Clint was there, and Bucky, who embraced Steve as strongly as he could with the eyes of his kingdom bearing down upon them. Steve didn’t care if they couldn’t kiss just then; he felt on top of the world.

Rumlow was still sprawled in the dirt, dazed and unmoving when Steve staggered over to investigate. He was alive, just winded and humiliated, it was a glorious sight.

“You have been weighed. You have been measured, and you absolutely have been found wanting.” Steve returned Rumlow’s words on him with relish.

“Steve’s more of a real knight than you’ll ever be.” Sam joined Steve’s side and clapped him on his good shoulder.

“Welcome to the new world.” Natasha grinned down at Rumlow.

“You dirty rotten cheat,” Clint added.

“Rumlow, you’re under arrest.” Bucky finished off. He gave a signal and guards swarmed around Rumlow’s prone figure before Steve was ushered to the sidelines to finally receive some much-needed treatment from the surgeon.

“You did it, Steve.” Sam smiled, supporting most of Steve’s weight as they walked. “You won.”

Steve glanced around at the crowd who were still cheering for him, and listening to the thundering chants of “Rogers!”

“Yeah.” He squeezed Sam’s hand in return. “We did.”

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

**Image** : Comic strip of Steve, Sam, Natasha, Clint & Bucky delighting in Rumlow's defeat | **Art by** : histoires_eternelles

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The feast to celebrate the tournament was better than any Steve had attended in Ironvhan. Rather than a banquet style, the spread was laid out in long tables with the royal table set at the head of the hall. Steve was afforded the seat of honour at Bucky’s right-hand side and, further down the tables, Steve could see Clint, Natasha and Sam laughing and joking along with the other squires and valets who had been invited to attend the feast as well as the knights. The atmosphere was definitely one of jubilant celebration, and maybe it was the large dose of willow bark Steve had drunk to dull the ache in his shoulder (which he perhaps shouldn’t have been mixing with sweet-tasting wine), or maybe it was because he was finally not having to lie, but Steve felt far lighter and more carefree than he had in months.

“How are you holding up?” Bucky leant over to ask during the main course, sipping from his goblet as he did. He’d dressed all in black for the evening festivities, with slashes of silver shining through the expensive velvet fabric of his doublet. He looked every inch the prince from the stories of Steve’s youth, and Steve was still struggling to reconcile that Prince James, the man he so long admired from afar, the Winter Soldier who had wowed him in the lists, and Bucky, the man he’d fallen head over heels for were all one and the same. Bucky’s hair was pulled back in its usual half-up style, twisted with little rings of silver that matched his outfit, and sparkled under the candlelight as he moved. It sounded cliché to say the outfit brought out his eyes, but it did; they shone even brighter than normal, like steel glinting in the sunlight, and when he smiled it made Steve’s heart sing.

“I’m fine,” Steve assured Bucky. He was so happy he could barely feel the pain in his shoulder.

The surgeon had been efficient, removing any lingering splinters, washing the whole wound with a splash of liquor that stung like the devil, before sewing it shut with deft movements that Steve was able to grin and bear. Steve had added his own compress of sphagnum moss which his mother had always sworn by before it was bandaged up and placed in a sling. He’d been warned not to use his arm for a few days, but Steve doubted he’d be able to keep it immobilised for that long. It already felt far better than it had a few hours ago and he was struggling not to reach out for his goblet of wine with it.

He wiggled his fingers in the sling—a scarf of royal blue that matched the tunic Bucky had sent over for him to wear that evening. It was slashed through with ruby red and embroidered with the white star flowers, Ipheion Uniflorum, that Steve bore on his shield. Although he didn’t need to wear that name as a disguise anymore, Steve was still partial to the design he’d crafted for himself and he intended to keep it as his coat of arms; the arms of Sir Steven Rogers. He felt dizzy with pride whenever he remembered that he was no longer pretending to be a knight.

“You know, that idiot Rumlow confessed to everything when we arrested him?” Bucky grinned. “He’s going to be imprisoned for a long, long time.”

“Serves him right.” Steve smiled back. “Sorry, I nearly ruined everything.”

“I’ve already told you—stop apologising, you saved my life, countless times, without even realising it.”

Steve flushed into his cup as he took another drink of the fruity wine that tasted like the plums that used to grow in the woods around his old home.

“You know, heroics like that, really ought to be rewarded,” Bucky went on, keeping his expression guarded.

Steve frowned in confusion. “You already _did_ , you knighted me, remember?”

“Yes, precisely.” Bucky gave a thoughtful hum and swirled his drink around the base of his cup. “And as such you require a Knight’s fee.”

Steve was familiar with the term, it was an old practice of awarding knights with a small tract of land supposed to be sufficient to support a knight, providing food and funds for his family, squires, and servants, not to mention horses and armour he’d need to fight for his Lord or King in battle. Nowadays most Lords opted to provide lodging, food, armour, keeping knights on as part of their household rather than dividing their lands amongst their knights, and Steve hadn’t been expecting to receive anything in addition to the title. He hadn’t even been expecting to receive _that_.

“I stripped some lands from an ignoble Lord recently; turned out he’d been secretly helping Hydra, feeding them information about our coastal defences, working with someone on Stark’s counsel to smuggle weapons from Ironvhan—Stark was furious when he discovered that, let me tell you. I need to bestow them on someone deserving. Someone I trust them with,” Bucky continued with an air of feigned nonchalance, pausing to take a long sip from his goblet as he let Steve stew in his confusion.

“What are you saying?” Steve asked slowly.

Bucky slowly replaced his goblet on the table and gave Steve a warm and loving smile. “I trust you, Steve. Would you watch over it for me, garrison the defences?”

Steve’s head spun. Yesterday he’d been a nobody, today he was a knight; and now Bucky wanted to give him _land?_ Not just land, a vassal holding?

“I’ve spoken with my father, and he agrees you make a good choice to hold it in the interim—I think he feels a little guilty about what happened to you this morning,” Bucky added under his breath.

“Water under the bridge.” Steve shook his head with a smile.

“But he admired your courage, and your loyalty. And who knows,” Bucky arched an eyebrow and smirked as he continued. It was the same mischievous expression Steve had seen from Bucky countless times around their campfires in the tournament grounds, but seeing it on the prince was quite another matter. “He might even let me make you Lord of it if you do a good job.”

_Lord Rogers_. Steve’s head spun. “You can’t just make me a Lord, Bucky,” Steve protested, leaning over to whisper, lest anyone else around them should hear. But no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. The raucous conversations in the banquet hall were layered over one another and a group of musicians were playing loudly in the far corner providing a background melody to it all.

“I can, and I will,” Bucky said simply and smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Bucky,” Steve began, but he had no idea what he actually wanted to say. Why shouldn’t he be a Lord? What made any of the nobles born into the position more deserving than he was? After all, how had they become nobles in the first place? By theft, cunning, and favouritism. Steve was at least better suited to the position than someone willing to sell out their country to the enemy. But no one of that changed the fact that Steve just wanted to go home. “I can’t accept. You’ve already given me too much, it’s time I went home.”

“Home,” Bucky mused, he used his knife to spear a roasted carrot and chewed on it carefully. “Red Hook, wasn’t it?” Bucky remembered from Steve’s outpouring apology that morning.

“Yes.”

“Then you will be going home, Steve, to Cobble Hill.” Bucky grinned. “It’s a small estate, a little derelict, but I hear the gardens were once quite beautiful.”

Steve blinked. Cobble Hill was down the coast from where he’d been born and raised. The castle he’d seen standing proudly on the hilltop in front of every sunset. He dreamed of living somewhere like that his entire life. Whilst his mother set her sights more reasonably on the cottage of their way into town, Steve had picked up sticks along their route and pretended to sword fight, declaring with the certainty of an eight-year-old boy that he’d live in that castle one day.

“Bucky—”

“Look, Steve, there’s no one who deserves it more than you, okay? Let me do this for you, please? I love you.”

Steve could only stare at Bucky, but there was an earnest honesty in his expression.

“The man I love should live in the grandest castle in all the realm—let me give you this little parcel of land, at least?” He reached to grasp Steve’s hand under the table and squeezed it tight.

“Alright.” Steve summoned up a smile and squeezed back with his good hand. “I suppose I can take it off your hands.”

“Besides,” Bucky leant closed to add in a conspiratorial whisper. “If you’ll have me, I think I’d like to marry you one day—and it’ll be much easier to do that if you’re already a Lord.”

Steve almost choked on his drink. He snorted it up his nose and coughed and spluttered on the wine before Bucky, laughing, handed him a napkin and Steve managed to regain his composure. Marriage? Steve had hoped he and Bucky might be able to build a life together when they’d both been lowly squires, but as soon as he learned who Bucky really was, Steve had thought he’d said goodbye to that dream.

“Is that such an awful idea?” Bucky laughed. “I don’t mean _yet_ obviously, I want to court you properly first.”

Steve shook his head furiously, rushing to correct himself. “But, you can’t marry me,” Steve protested, dropping his voice to a matching whisper. “I can’t exactly give you heirs.” He arched his eyebrows.

“That’s all you’re worried about?” Bucky laughed. “I have four younger sisters.” Bucky gestured down the table to where the elder two were huddled in a deep discussion with each other, the younger two were apparently too young to attend the feast. “I’m sure at least one of them is bound to have children,” he explained. “We’ll pick our favourite and tutor them to be our heir.” He smiled and reached for his wine goblet once more.

_Our heir_. Steve shook his head, could it be that easy? Could he be offered everything he’d always dreamed of, just like that?

“Was that meant to be a marriage proposal, then?” he asked instead.

“If you have to _ask_ it clearly wasn’t a very good one.” Bucky laughed.

“Ask me again later, when I’m not in so much pain?”

“It’s a promise.” Bucky reached to squeeze Steve’s hand again, this time lifting it to the tabletop and holding it clasped for all the world to see.

Later, after a few more glasses of wine, Steve had almost forgotten the pain in his shoulder. A dance floor was cleared between the tables, and Steve let Bucky lead him on to it, where they opened the dancing with the very same farandole Bucky had taught to him in the stables back in Ridgewood.

Later still, when it came time to retire, Steve found himself being led up to the royal bedrooms rather than back to the camping ground. Bucky laid him out on a four-poster bed under a canopy embroidered with stars and sealed their future together with a long and lingering kiss, before coaxing one tender orgasm after another from Steve.

Spent, and happy, floating on a cloud of bliss, Steve lay back into the pillows with Bucky draped across his chest, and stared up at the stars overhead. He really had earned himself a better life, after all; he really had changed his stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the homestrech! One last chapter and an epilogue to go 😊💙✨


	15. Home

The early morning sun slanted through the open curtains of the bed which neither of them had remembered to pull closed the night before. Steve woke slowly, blinking against the warm sunlight and sighing softly at the warm feeling of Bucky’s arm thrown across his chest and Bucky’s head pressed mouth-first against his shoulder. Bucky had drooled a little in the night, and his head was a mess of tangled curls that stuck up every which way. He carried on dozing despite the morning sun and Steve watched, mesmerised by the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest and the sort sniffled, half-snores that accompanied every second breath. There was nothing very regal about him in that moment, except perhaps the expensive silk sheets bunched across his hips and tangled around his legs, but Steve had never loved him more.

“Morning,” Steve said gently, chasing it with a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. Bucky huffed and muttered something completely illegible before twisting further against Steve’s shoulder and staying resolutely asleep. 

Steve just laughed and rearranged his arms around Bucky, to hug him close. That morning was the last time they’d be able to wake together for a while, and Steve didn’t want to cut it short. He carefully twisted the arm that was trapped by Bucky’s body to card his fingers through Bucky’s hair, admiring how soft and silken it was despite the tangles. With the other he gently traced the swell of Bucky’s bicep and peppered more kisses to Bucky’s temple until at last, he began to rouse, letting out a breathy sigh and kissing against the patch of drool he’d left on Steve’s shoulder before twisting away onto his back and blinking across at Steve with an adorably sleepy smile. 

“Morning,” he said back, dragging a hand across his mouth and then rubbing at his eyes to rid them of crusted sleep. “It feels early,” he added, giving a full-body stretch, followed by a yawn, before springing back into on himself and curling up his side to face Steve. 

“It is.”

“Then let’s go back to sleep.” Bucky made grabby hands at Steve who obligingly rolled over to face Bucky, leaving little more than a hair’s breadth between them. 

“I thought you might want to use our last morning in bed together for a more worthwhile enterprise,” Steve suggested with a sly smile and tucked a stray curl back behind Bucky’s ear. 

“I suppose I could be persuaded.” Bucky hummed and pulled Steve in for a kiss that was slow and sleepy and filled with tender warmth before Bucky woke up properly and starting kissing with a fierce intensity. He rolled Steve onto his back and moved to straddle him, pinning Steve beneath him as he kissed intensely like they wouldn’t see each other again for a month. “Don’t go,” he said, in between kisses. 

“Bucky,” Steve laughed. “You know I have to. Just for a little while. You’re the one that gave me the land after all.”

Steve had spent two months in the palace following the tournament. At first, Bucky insisted Steve had to wait until his shoulder was healed before he could travel, and then it simply became a matter of neither of them wanting to part. But if Bucky did want to put Steve in charge of Cobble Hill, then he needed to actually go and be stationed there; at least for a few months or so. 

“Besides, it’s time I went home.” Steve was desperate to see his mother again, no matter how tempting it was to stay cocooned in Bucky’s bed all day for the rest of eternity. 

Bucky gave up supporting himself above Steve and flopped down on top of him, causing Steve to let out an ‘oof’ as all the air was pushed from his lungs under Bucky’s weight. 

“But you’ll come back?”

“Of course, I will.” 

“You’d better.” Bucky started kissing his way away along Steve’s collarbone and gave a little growl as he reached the hollow of Steve’s throat. 

“Just try and keep me away.” Steve laughed. 

They end up staying in bed a while longer, thoroughly messing up the sheets some more before Bucky called for some bath water and they made themselves respectable enough to go down and meet the rest of the court. 

Even after two months of living surrounded by luxury, Steve still wasn’t used to life in the palace. He was actually looking forward to getting back on the road, although he wasn’t looking forward to leaving Bucky behind. What had developed between them in snatches during the summer tournaments had flourished during the time Steve had spent by Bucky’s side; to the point where Steve couldn’t even remember what life had been like before they’d met. 

“Good morning, Steven – James.” Bucky’s mother, Queen Winnifred, greeted them in the dining hall, where most of the other courtiers were finishing their breakfast. “Though I’m not sure there’s much of the morning left,” she added with an arched eyebrow and a knowing smile. 

Steve tried to hide his blush whilst Bucky just grinned back, completely unabashed. Bucky’s family had, rather surprisingly, welcomed Steve with open arms. There were multiple reasons to find fault with their son and, more importantly, _heir’s_ choice of a consort (although nothing was official yet, Bucky had made his wishes known on multiple occasions now), but Winifred had just taken Steve aside the day after the tournament and told him how pleased she was to see her son so happy. Even King George, who Steve had hardly seen during his time in the palace, had taken time out of his busy schedule to offer Steve a formal apology for his arrest. 

“Steve, will you take me riding today? Mother says I’m not to go without an escort and everyone _else_ forces me to ride a stupid pony. Will you let me take Devil again? Will you, please?” Becca, the second eldest of Bucky’s younger sisters, who had taken a particular shine to Steve, pleaded as soon as Steve took a seat at the table. 

Steve glanced surreptitiously at the Queen, worried she would be angry that he’d let Becca ride Devil— even though Devil was the calmest and most trustworthy horse Steve had ever come across when he wanted to be—but Winifred glanced away, and smiled into her goblet without making a comment. 

“I would love to take you riding, Becca, and I will as soon as I return,” Steve promised. 

“Return? Why? Are you leaving? Bucky, don’t make him leave, you can’t.”

“I’m coming back,” Steve assured Becca with a smile. 

“Good.”

Steve shared a smile with Bucky and felt that familiar rush of warmth seeping through his chest. He was definitely going to miss Bucky and his family whilst he was gone.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Steve begged of Bucky before he had to leave to ready Devil for the journey. Even if he was a proper knight now, he still didn’t trust anyone else to attend on his horse. The dining hall had emptied around them and it was just the two of them left, sitting beneath the vaulted stone ceiling as the midday sun poured through beautiful stained-glass windows around them. 

“Every day,” Bucky promised. He brushed Steve’s hair back from his face and leant in for a kiss. Steve kissed back greedily, drinking him in, memorising the feel of Bucky’s lips against his, the way their tongues moved together; hoping it would be enough to sate the ache of their parting. 

“Maybe not _every_ day,” Steve countered, breathless as they broke away. He let their foreheads fall together and carded his hands through Bucky’s long hair. “I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to. 

“Nothing is more important than you Steve, knight of my heart,” Bucky said, full of sincerity which made Steve’s cheeks burn and his heart sing. Bucky ducked down to kiss him again. Steve was sorely tempted to decline the offer of the vassal, to ask to stay on a knight in the palace so they could just spend every day together; but he understood it was an important stepping stone if they were to spend their lives together. It was the only reason he finally pulled away from Bucky and left to finish packing his things and preparing for the journey. 

“I’ll come and find you before you leave,” Bucky promised, catching Steve’s hand to give it one last kiss before Steve took his leave. Steve could only nod. 

He made quick work of gathering his possessions from the small guest room he’d given in the palace; he didn’t have much, and everything he cared about fitted into his pack and two saddlebags. Steve had never actually spent the night there but understood the room was an attempt to show decorum. No matter how many clothes he left scattered on the floor of Bucky’s royal bed-chamber, they’d always found their way back to the little room, neatly folded—and sometimes washed—by the following day. Steve hadn’t managed to discover which of the servants were responsible, but he left a note and a small bundle of coins on the pillow to show his gratitude; trusting that they’d find it. 

He made sure to stop by the kitchens before he left, to thank the cooks, and found what little room he had left in his pack filled with treats in return—which hadn’t been his intention, but Steve was still unable to turn down free food. He passed by the armoury too, where he found Clint fletching a fresh batch of arrows and, surprisingly, Natasha perched on a tabletop sharpening some of her knives. Steve had barely seen the spy twice during his drawn-out stay at the palace.

“Finally leaving, then?” she asked, noticing the bags Steve had slung over his shoulder. 

“Thought it was time I finally headed home.” He agreed. 

“Don’t stay away too long, I bet Bucky’s already pining for you.” Clint laughed. “No seriously, you don’t know how awful he was whilst we were at war.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be back in no time.” Steve just smiled back. “And you’re welcome at Cobble Hill any time,” Steve offered. “Both of you.” He turned to Natasha who gave a wry smile in response. He bade them farewell and made to leave when Natasha surprised him again by leaping down from the table to catch his arm.

“I never thanked you,” she said. 

“For what?”

“Stepping in on the road, with Rumlow.”

“Oh.” Steve dropped his gaze to the floor and shuffled his weight from foot to foot; he still felt guilty about that.

“And when you thought I’d been arrested. You should have left me, but you didn’t.”

“You didn’t exactly need my help,” Steve protested, “either of those times.”

“But you didn’t know that.” She squeezed his arm. “So, thank you. You’re an idiot,” she added with a grin. “But a noble one.”

Steve laughed and pulled her in for a hug, which she tolerated for longer than Steve expected before wriggling her way free. 

“Alright. That’s enough. Safe journey.” She laughed as she shoved him away. 

Steve gave them another goodbye before slipping out to the stables to get Devil saddled and ready. He added a blanket beneath the saddle to cushion the harness and secured the saddlebags on either side; leaving the pack to be added to the wagons that would bring the rest of his newly acquired belongings. All of which had been provided by Bucky. The wagons included. Steve didn’t feel worthy of any of it, but Bucky had insisted on gifting him with chests of clothes that Steve didn’t feel important enough to wear, not to mention carpets and bedding to help furnish what would become his new home. Hauling that much luggage with them meant their journey would take at least a week, even though a fast rider and a reliable horse could easily make the journey in a matter of days. 

Steve was just finishing securing the halter around Devil’s nose when he heard a soft voice singing from the other side of the stables.

_“Close your eyes and I'll kiss you, tomorrow I'll miss you. Remember I'll always be true. And then while I'm away, I'll write home every day, And I'll send all my lovin' to you.”_

Bucky sang softly, an echo of their first meeting. Steve turned to see Bucky leaning on a pillar on the far side of the stable. He was smiling as he sang, but there was a trace of sadness mingled in with his expression. 

_“I'll pretend that I'm kissing the lips I am missing, and hope that my dreams will come true. And then while I'm away, I'll write home every day, and I'll send all my lovin' to you.”_

“You don’t have to pretend just yet,” Steve replied, speaking through the painful lurch he felt in his chest as he listened to the lyrics. He left Devil to cross the room and pull Bucky into a hug. “And I’m the one who’s leaving.”

“I know. Kiss me then.” Bucky tilted his face so Steve could capture his lips and kiss him, tenderly. 

“I’ll miss you.” Steve told him and then, even though he knew he couldn’t sing as well as Bucky, he finished off the chorus anyway: _“All my lovin', I will send to you, all my lovin', darlin', I'll be true.”_

“Knight of my heart.” Bucky kissed him again, clinging close. “Please hurry back.”

“I will,” Steve promised. 

Bucky pulled Steve close for one last, urgent kiss that left Steve breathless and bereft before he swept from the stables. It took a moment for Steve to recover and remind himself that would see Bucky again very soon, and to remember how desperate he was to get home, before he could finish seeing to Devil. 

“All set?” Sam asked as Steve led Devil out into the courtyard and made the last few adjustments to Devil’s reins. Sam already had Figaro harnessed and ready and the wagons and their drivers looked set as well. “Ready to go home?” 

Steve glanced up at Bucky who was standing in the doorway to the castle with the rest of the royal family who had come to see Steve off. He waved and Bucky smiled back, throwing decorum to the wind to blow Steve a kiss in return. Steve’s heart soared and he couldn’t help but think he was leaving a piece of his home here. 

“Ready,” he replied and mounted Devil in a smooth move, settling himself in the saddle for the long ride ahead. He’d return soon, he knew by now that he would never be able to stay apart from Bucky for too long; once Steve had garrisoned Cobble Hill with men he trusted to defend the coastline; once he’d been reunited with his mother, then he could return. 

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

Steve stayed with the wagons for the first day of the ride and helped the attendants pitch the tents by the river to camp for the night. But by morning he’d grown restless, Red Hook was so close and the sedate pace of the journey felt tedious and taunting. By mid-morning he’d made up his mind, and left the caravan in Sam’s capable hands, pressing on at a much faster pace. By sundown he was back in lands that he vaguely recognised from his youth and by the following afternoon, he was galloping through fields and roads he knew all too well. He passed the white cottage on the edge of town where his mother had always dreamed of living and slowed to a more decorous trot as he passed through the cobbled streets and narrow archways, following the route he knew by heart to his old front door. 

Bunches of herbs hung around the doorframe exactly like he’d remembered and the smells that wafted through the open shutters hit him with a pang of nostalgia that threatened to keel him over. He slipped down from his saddle carefully, landing on light feet, and settled Devil with a soothing hand to the nose; keeping his eyes fixed on the doorway all the while. He tied Devil’s reins to a wooden railing across the street and took a moment to fix his attire and calm his heart rate before he entered. 

The doorway was much smaller than he remembered and Steve stooped so he wouldn’t bash his head, ducking through into the cramped workshop which was full of clay jars and wooden boxes, more expensive vials lined the shelves and an assortment of flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling. It was all exactly as Steve remembered, right down the woman who was busy crushing something aromatic with a wooden pestle and mortar. Steve didn’t recognise the smell but it burst, fragrant and soothing with every twist of her wrist. She wore a faded blue scarf over her long golden hair to keep it pulled back from her face and a threadbare apron over her skirts.

“Hello,” Steve called out, trying desperately to keep the trembling, nervous edge from his voice.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” his mother replied, applying a few more twists of the pestle before she wiped her hands on her apron and turned to greet him with a smile. 

Steve had worried he wouldn’t recognise her, he'd tried to draw her face so often from memory that he worried he’d remembered it wrong, but she looked exactly like the face in his dreams. There were more lines around her eyes and mouth, perhaps, but light and warmth still shone from her face. 

“My Lord.” Sarah gave a curtsey that made Steve flush. “What can I do for you?”

“Um,” Steve choked back the multitude of emotions that surged within him. Of course, she didn’t recognise him. When they'd parted twelve years ago, Steve had been a scrawny waif of a boy with a thatch of messy blonde hair that fell across a dirt-streaked face. His arms had been no thicker than beanpoles. Now fully grown and dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, slashed with green and belted with a buckle of real gold; with a sword at his hip and his hair swept neatly back from his forehead, Steve hardly recognised himself either. “I hear you’re a talented healer. I wondered if you had any liquorice and comfrey? My squire is suffering from an ailment of his lungs. I’m told it helps.” Steve didn’t know why he lied, a sense of shame, perhaps, for not having returned to her sooner. 

“It can help to relieve the symptoms, yes.” His mother smiled at him. “I’ll make up a tincture.” She instantly began to collect the ingredients she needed from around the workshop and gathered them on the worn wooden table in the centre of the room.

Steve watched her work, full of fond memories and nostalgia. He could remember a time when he’d been too short to see over the table, so he’d upended a bucket and stood on it, wobbling, as he tried to insist he could help. The smell of anise filled the room as his mother worked and the scent memory alone was enough to take Steve right back. 

“I use to make this for my son,” Sarah smiled up at Steve, an undisputed sadness in her eyes. 

“What happened to him?” Steve played along with his own lie, half a breath away from spilling the truth. 

“He was squired to a knight.” Her chest puffed up proudly at that, and Steve couldn’t help but smile. “I hoped to give him a better life than he could ever have here. I hoped he’d change his stars.”

“I’m sure he did.” Steve lowered his voice, unable to keep his emotion from trembling through it this time. Sarah looked up and locked eyes with him, staring at him properly for the first time. Her brow creased and she sucked in a breath like she didn’t dare to believe. 

“One day, I wish he’ll follow his feet and find his way back home.” She left it open-ended, not daring to ask. Steve’s eyes welled with tears as he smiled and nodded. 

“He has.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Sarah dropped the bottle she’d been holding with a clatter and stepped back from the table, hastily wiping her hands on her apron as she stared at Steve. 

“Hi, ma,” Steve greeted her properly with a smile that wavered. 

“Steven?” She hurried around the table to him and stopped, hand tentatively ghosting over his arms. “You grew up so _big_ ,”

Steve laughed and closed the distance his mother hadn’t been able to, pulling her close into a hug. It was strange and wonderful to hug her again after so long. Steve had been so much shorter than her when he left, now he towered over her. 

“Look at you.” She pulled away to caress his face with her palm, soft and gentle despite the calluses and rough cracked skin that came from her work. “So handsome.” She cooed and Steve felt himself blush. “And all this finery. These are the clothes of a gentleman.” 

“A knight.” Steve smiled. “Sir Steven Rogers,” he told her, brimming with pride. 

“A knight?” She clapped her hands over her mouth as her eyes went wide. 

Steve nodded, smiling brightly. “I did it, ma. I changed my stars.”

“Oh, Steven!” His mother pulled him in for another hug, clinging tightly. “I always knew you were meant for more. I hated sending you away.” Her voice cracked and she began to sob against his chest. Steve tightened the hug, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“I don’t blame you.” He assured her. 

“There hasn’t been a day since that I haven’t missed you.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve pulled back to smile down at her and wipe the tears from her cheek with a gentle brush of his thumb. “I’m home now.”

“I always hoped you would come back to me, one day.” She rose up onto her tip-toes and Steve dutifully sunk enough for her to press a kiss on his temple like she always had when he was little. It sparked a warm feeling of safety and security that he hadn’t felt in so long. “I’m so proud of you.” Sarah sank back to her feet and placed a hand over Steve’s heart which Steve covered with his own, holding tight, feeling happy tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “Thank you. For coming home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue to go! 💙✨


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The final chapter 💙✨ Thank you for reading this far, I really hope you enjoyed it!

Steve had never been shy of taking on a challenge, and restoring Cobble Hill to its former glory was certainly a challenge. The previous Lord had left the place neglected, shunning all of his duties to let the place fall into ruin as he sold secrets and smuggled weapons to Hydra, vying for a different kind of power. What that Lord might have _done_ with that power, Steve didn’t understand; he certainly hadn’t wielded the power he could have held over Cobble Hill for any sort of good, and there was a lot of good that could be done. Steve had successfully changed his own stars, now he had the means to help those around him too.

He quickly knighted Sam and appointed him as his Captain of the Guard, garrisoning the castle with people Steve trusted to look after it during his frequent trips back to the capital—and to Bucky. He established a school for the local children and sold some of the more extravagant clothes and artefacts he found in the castle to provide scholarships that paid a stipend for parents who couldn’t afford to not to have their children labouring the fields all day; giving the children the opportunity for them to apprentice in a skill that would broaden their horizons. What he was most proud of though, was the gardens which he hired local gardeners to restore and opened them up to public use. He sectioned off a portion specially for his mother to cultivate an herbal grove for all the medicinal herbs and flowers she used in her tinctures and remedies, which she still offered to anyone who needed her help, though now free of charge. He never did buy her the cottage she’d dreamed of, but he gave her a large set of rooms in the castle instead; a suite that looked out over her garden and drank in the light of the rising sun. She promised him it was even better than what she’d dared to dream.

The story of ‘Lord Ipheion’ fell quickly into something of a folklore legend, which was retold over and over, becoming highly romanticised in the process. Though Steve supposed he could hardly blame the bards for that: it was like something ripped straight from a fairy tale and Steve sometimes couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been. Sometimes he expected to wake from a dream and find himself feverish or hallucinating, but the constant flood of letters he received from Bucky helped reassure him that it was all real.

When he was officially promoted to Lord Rogers, after half a year of keeping the place running smoothly, there were celebrations throughout the town, and when the tournament season kicked-off the following summer, there was a very special event to kick-start the proceedings.

“My Lords and Ladies,” the herald’s voice echoed throughout the stadium. “It gives me great pleasure to welcome Prince James and his husband, Lord Rogers! Let the tournament, commence!”

Steve stepped into the royal box, arm in arm with Bucky, and waved cheerfully to the crowd, who roared with delight at their appearance. The sound never failed to overwhelm Steve, and for the tournament to celebrate their royal wedding, the crowd seemed even larger than ever.

“Well, we had to celebrate things in style, didn’t we?” Bucky only grinned and twisted to press a kiss against Steve’s cheek before they settled into their grand cushioned chairs to watch the proceedings.

“Who’s up first?” Steve asked, fiddling with his deep navy-blue cloak to get comfortable in the chair, he still didn’t much care for the finery and didn’t know how Bucky managed to wear it with such ease—especially as he always stripped out of most of it as soon as they were behind closed doors.

“A very interesting pair who I think you’ll enjoy,” Bucky smirked.

The two knights paraded in front of the royal box to show deference but kept their visors down, shielding their identity. Steve thought there was something familiar about the way they carried themselves on horseback, but he couldn’t place what it was. Then the flag dropped and the pair charged towards each other. The knight charging from east to west was slightly built and despite their strong-looking armour, Steve couldn’t help but fear for them. They carried a small wooden shield, as had become the fashion, painted black with a red hourglass symbol on the centre, and Steve winced in anticipation as their opponent—a bulkier knight with a purple chevron painted on their shield—thrust their lance. But Steve’s concern had been misplaced. The red knight hit hard and fast with a surprising amount of force and the purple knight toppled backwards, falling into the dirt; unhorsed, and out of the competition. Steve’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the arm of his chair, but the knight sprang to his feet looking unharmed. Beside him, Steve noticed Bucky was laughing.

“Bad luck, Clint!” Bucky called through cupped hands.

 _Clint?_ Steve glanced down to see the knight raise his visor and reveal Clint’s laughing face. He gave a slightly dazed-looking smile and a thumbs up to indicate that he was okay.

“Better luck against her next time!” Bucky added, and Steve whipped his head around to see the other knight remove _her_ helmet and shake out long red hair.

“I think you’d better stick to archery,” Natasha laughed at Clint. She trotted over to him on her sleek black horse and dismounted smoothly to extend a hand and help him to his feet. Their armour jostled as they hugged and Clint clapped Natasha on the back with a proud looking smile.

“I thought you had to be a knight to joust?” Steve gave Bucky a sidelong look.

“Like that ever stopped _you._ " Bucky arched an eyebrow and then smiled as Steve flushed. “But after everything Nat’s done for this country, I thought it was high time someone rewarded her for her efforts, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I’d like to see anyone try and tell her she’s a ‘dame’.” Bucky grinned. Steve laughed in agreement. Natasha wound make a finer knight that half of the ‘sirs’ Steve had come across, and why the hell shouldn’t she be able to joust?

The tournament turned out to be more of an exhibition, than a competition. Sir Fandral jousted against Sir Volstagg, two female Asgardian knights (Valkyries, Steve learned) demonstrated exceptional jousting prowess, thrilling the crowd with their unmatched skill, before Sir Peter, the young knight Steve had been so scared to hurt last year, went up against Sir Logan and managed to show the older knight a thing or two.

“Do you miss it?” Bucky asked as they watched the next pair ready themselves at each end of the list.

“I thought I would,” Steve answered honestly, and he did miss some of it: the thrill, the excitement, the rush of adrenaline, and the cheers from the crowd spurring him on. But he didn’t miss the violent jolts nor the aches and pains that let him feeling rattled and broken. “But I much prefer watching it from here, with you.” He turned to give Bucky a sappy smile and Bucky shook his head; looking exasperated but fond.

“Such a romantic,” he laughed.

“Do you miss it?” Steve asked.

“Sometimes, but.” Bucky reached for Steve’s hand and held it, brushing his thumb lightly across Steve’s palm. “It was the sense of adventure, I loved about the sport. The anonymity. Knowing people were cheering for _me_ , not for the Prince. Knowing people liked me for _me._ ”

“People have always liked you for you.” Steve tried to assure him. He lifted their clasped hands and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s knuckles. “How could they not?”

Beside them, Shuri, sitting in a place of honour fit for a visiting princess, made a gagging noise.

“Stop it, Steve, his ego’s already too big without your flattery to inflate it,” she muttered.

Bucky tipped his head back and laughed, keeping a tight hold of Steve’s hand as he did. He didn’t end up letting go for the remainder of the tournament.

⋆☆⋆❀⋆☆⋆

The tournament was followed by a lavish feast, with food distributed throughout the town for all of the non-nobles to join in too. The dancing and celebrations lasted well into the night and when Steve and Bucky finally retired to their bed-chamber, they could still hear the music and singing drifting up from the town below. They stood side by side with the window thrown open, letting the moonlight pour in, and danced and swayed in each other’s arms in time to the music.

Bucky twirled Steve, who dutifully ducked under Bucky’s arm until they ended up face to face and the dance lapsed into just holding one another close. Bucky looked beautiful with the silver of the moon curving around his cheek and tangling in the soft curls of his hair.

“If I could ask God one thing, it would be to stop the moon,” Steve spoke slowly, pulling out of hold so he could tuck Bucky’s hair back behind his ear and lean to place a kiss high on Bucky’s cheekbone, right where the moonlight glanced off it. “Stop the moon and make this night and your beauty, last forever.” Steve would happily live trapped in the moment, in Bucky’s arms, poised on the precipice of their long and happy life that promised to stretch out before them, for an eternity.

“You don’t need God for that. You already have me forever,” Bucky promised. “Though I can’t promise I’ll always be this beautiful.”

“You will. You’ll grow more beautiful in my eyes every day.”

“Even when we’re old and wrinkled?” Bucky laughed.

“ _Especially_ when we’re old and grey,” Steve assured Bucky. “I love you.”

“I love you too, knight of my heart.” Bucky smiled back and arched up to kiss Steve with passionate intensity full of promise. A promise of a life lived together, happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> I hope you liked it 😁💙 thank you for your lovely comments! 
> 
> And thank you so much to H for the lovely illustrations!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you can 💙✨
> 
> This fic will be updated Tuesdays and Fridays until 11th December 2020. 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/astrobucky) and [Tumblr](https://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/) if you want to come and talk headcanons.


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